


Wait Out the Sun

by agentverbivore (verbivore8642)



Series: Crime AU [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Crime AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fitz's POV, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Post-HYDRA, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Surprising amounts of fluff, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Undercover as Married, Undercover as a Couple, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2386922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbivore8642/pseuds/agentverbivore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz and Simmons go undercover in the criminal underworld, trying to get intel on a crime family with mysterious ties to Hydra. It takes time, but eventually they get comfortable with their new identities - so much so that it gets harder and harder to remember why they should go back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buckle Up Real Tight

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT:  
> The canon-divergent premise of the fic is that the med pod floated when it fell out of the plane, meaning that Fitz has never confessed his feelings to Simmons. Everything else about their relationship is canon through that point.
> 
> This was 95% completed before the Season 2 premiere, and so takes almost no current canon into consideration. 
> 
> Keep in mind that the entire thing is in Fitz's POV, and he's not always the most reliable narrator (particularly when it comes to Jemma).
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to MK for reading through/editing the entire thing, and cheering me on when I needed it!
> 
> **[Eclecticmuses](http://eclecticmuses.tumblr.com)' gorgeous poster art for this fic can be found [here](http://agentverbivore.tumblr.com/post/149137797438/eclecticmuses-but-you-led-them-to-our-hideout)!**
> 
> The two gifsets for this AU can be found [here](http://agentverbivore.tumblr.com/post/128995748248/wait-out-the-sun-a-fitzsimmons-crime-au-ao3) and [here](http://agentverbivore.tumblr.com/post/149559556511/a-fitzsimmons-crime-au-1-2-fitz-and-simmons-go)!

[ ](http://agentverbivore.tumblr.com/post/98926449643/wait-out-the-sun-a-fitzsimmons-crime-au-she)

 

\------

 

 _Last Day of the Mission_ (Part 2)

  
Fitz swept his thumb over the skin on the underside of Jemma's wrist, pale smoothness over finely-spun veins, taking comfort in her coolness and the pulse he felt there. With every pass, a different word flitted through his head, like a mantra of the things that had made up the past six months.  _Fear. Love. Anger. Desperation. Love. Hope. Peace. Love. Love. Love._  Old Fitz – a much younger Fitz – the engineer who had barely ever left the lab and didn't have any relationships other than with his mother and lab partner, would have been terrified of the conversation they were now having, would probably have blanched at the thought that he and Jemma had been sleeping together and pretending to be married without ever knowing their true standing.

Now, this Fitz, the new one who could hold a real gun steady and fire it, and would kill to protect Jemma without ever losing sleep over it – well, he was still scared. But having her pulse in his hand brought air into his lungs, and the strange peacefulness of knowing that dying to protect her was nothing more than his most basic purpose. His life for hers, at the sound of a gun. In his head, it seemed just that simple.

"Fitz, they're coming," Jemma murmured, peering around the edge of the ratty curtains without revealing herself in the window frame. That had been one of the first things they'd gotten to practice when they went out into the field: Don't give them a target.

She glanced down at his hand on her wrist and sighed. "It's going to be strange, going back. Isn't it?"

"I don't want to go back, Jemma," Fitz whispered.

 

\------

 

 _Fifteenth Day_ (Part 1)

 

The lime-green Aston-Martin sped down the street, taking the corner on a dime, rear wheels skidding out and then snapping back into place as the accelerator slammed into the floor. Pedestrians scurried away from the edge of the sidewalk, eyeing the car as if its driver was going to turn the wheel towards them at any second.

Inside the haphazardly-restored interior, Fitz had his tongue set in between his teeth, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if the cops had found them. Jemma, who had squealed loudly when they took the turn at _far_ too fast a speed, quickly devolved into adrenaline-fueled giggles, not realizing that her hand was still wrapped tightly around Fitz’s forearm.

“Oh my God, oh my _God_ , Fitz, that was –” She hesitated, but Fitz read the smile on her face.

“Really bloody fun.” 

Jemma dropped her head back against the worn-leather headrest. “Yes, it _really_ was. Oh God, I’m not _supposed_ to think robbery’s fun, though. Very –”

“Not-good-girl?” As if to underscore this, Fitz took another sharp turn onto an empty street, trying not to be too pleased when she squeezed his arm that much harder.

“That, yes.” Much to Fitz’s (unacknowledged) disappointment, she removed her hand from his arm to brush a large curl out of her face. “I just have to keep reminding myself that this particular shop owner is really a very nasty person, and Skye will pick up the money at the drop and distribute it to local charities. Really, we’re like Robin Hood.”

Fitz chuckled, but glanced sideways at her when he let the car slow down a bit, finally sure that they weren’t being followed. “You know it won’t always be like that. We’re going to have to–”

“I know,” Jemma whispered.

They lapsed into silence, the V8 purring reliably under Fitz’s hands. After a minute, he grinned. “Did you see the look on the old twat’s face when the cash register popped open on its own? Practically drooled all down the front of his Confederate flag shirt. 

Jemma cracked up, doubling over. “Oh Fitz, I am _never_ going to be tired of the looks people give us.”

“That’s what you get for underestimating people, thankyouverymuch. Size isn’t everything.”

She snorted. “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“I meant – I meant height, obviously! You’re not exactly willowy –” 

“Fitz.” Her tone had switched abruptly to that of ‘Agent’ Simmons and she was staring at pixelated green text on her phone, the terminal for Skye’s secure comm hack. “He’s been arrested.”

A sharp turn of the wheel took them out of the center lane and Fitz slammed on the brakes. “Where is he?” 

“Seminole Avenue branch.”

“Right.” He did a quick U-turn and laid on the gas. “We’re about ten minutes away. What’d’you think, another smash and grab?”

“Oh, but we _just_ did that. See if there’s a gas station on the way, that’s much easier.”

“Good idea, they’ll call in more quickly, too.” He had to pull to a hard stop at a crowded intersection, and took a second to make eye contact, giving Jemma’s hand a fast squeeze. “Ready for this, partner?”

She inhaled, and he knew they were both thinking about how this moment – this hour – was when they really committed to this mission. After this point, the secure comm line Skye had hacked into Jemma’s phone would go dark – it was too dangerous to keep using it regularly once they were embedded. The past couple of weeks had merely been practice for the big leagues into which they were about to run headlong: If they played the next few hours right, they were in, and there were no more easy outs.

Jemma squeezed his hand back and smiled. “I am if you are, partner.”

“Okay then,” he replied. “Let’s go get our mug shots.” As Fitz revved the engine and the car took off, he grinned, feeling giddy and reckless and more alive than he had since before Hydra sent SHIELD tumbling down.

 

\------

 

_Twenty-Five Days Before the Mission_

 

Skye slid an unopened water bottle across the conference table to Fitz, who had been ten minutes late to the base briefing and was parched. He caught the bottle and nodded his thanks, but Simmons snatched it away and managed to drink half the water before he grabbed it back from her. Ever dignified, Skye snorted audibly, drawing an exasperated eyebrow-raise from now-Director Phil Coulson.

In addition to the Bus team members – who all had seats at the front of the table, nearest to the Director – there were a few, higher-level clearance SHIELD operatives that had been working at the Playground for the past couple of months. Unlike many routine base briefings, this one was restricted; Coulson was in the process of proposing a risky, complicated new mission. 

“...And last week they were implicated, but not charged, in the robbery of the central Atlanta Bank of America branch. They made off with fifteen million dollars, and used what looks like a bastardized Mouse Hole.” 

Fitz tensed at the mention of his invention. One of the most frustrating things for him while they’d been cleaning up Hydra’s mess in the past couple of months was how often it seemed that his work caused the biggest problems.

Sci-Ops had required a semester-long ethics course about the misappropriation of well-intended technology, and, boring lecture hall though it was, one of the units had been about the need to secure the inventions created by the science division. (Not that Fitz had _needed_ the lectures to explain that to him, as he’d never tired of reminding Simmons. He was a bloody genius after all; he didn’t need someone to tell him that his line of work carried the threat of a certain amount of blowback.)

“D’you think that Hydra found someone to reverse-engineer the one we used at the Hub, sir?”

“That would have been extraordinarily difficult,” Simmons muttered from beside him, hugging a notebook to her chest and tapping a pen against her arm. “It took _you_ months to execute your design, and I can’t imagine Hydra managed to secure any SHIELD scientists at your skill level that quickly –” 

“Actually,” Coulson interrupted, “we think that Hydra managed to get blueprints of the Mouse Hole, and a number of other sensitive sci-tech designs, during the raid of the Triskelion. Either some entrepreneurial Hydra ops have been selling them, or the... Wellers of Atlanta are in deep with Hydra. One way or another, we’ve got enough evidence to justify sending someone in.”

“ _Undercover_ ,” added Billy Koenig, who was grinning widely enough to make the safe assumption that Coulson had set up the meeting with his help. May was also standing next to Coulson at the front of the room, but was her normal, stony-faced self – although she did deign to give Koenig a quick glare for his enthusiasm.

“I’ll go, sir,” said Trip, who sat forward in his seat next to Skye. “I’ve been itching to get off-base, and –”

“Thank you, Agent Triplett, but we’ll be needing you here.” Coulson took a deep breath, and leaned on the end of the table. “Everyone in this room knows how hard we’ve been working to pull back all the identities that have been burned, but Hydra’s had one up on us for a while, and even with Skye working sixteen-hour days we’re still having trouble getting rid of what they made public. There are very few of you who have little enough out there to be able to actually go undercover, and I don’t want this going below a certain level.”

“Who’re you sending then, AC?” Skye, who was chewing on the end of a pen, had declined to alter her nickname for Coulson after his promotion, no matter how many dark looks she got from the other SHIELD agents at the Playground.

Coulson inhaled and stared down at the table, clearly uncomfortable with the conclusion that had been reached at some point in the earliest mission meetings. Seeing his reluctance, May spoke for him, her mask breaking briefly to mirror the worry on Coulson’s face. “FitzSimmons.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Fitz said, speaking at the same time as Simmons.

Koenig tossed them both thick folders as he spoke, filled with more detailed information that was too dry for the meeting itself. “You’ve got just under a month to prepare. We’ve identified a married rob-and-con team that spent a few years terrorizing the U.K. before migrating to the States when the British government got too close. They seem to have, ah, disappeared, shall we say –”

“Into one of SHIELD’s new prison facilities,” Coulson added, crossing his arms. 

“So it’ll be easy for Skye to track down any electronic trace of them and replace their information with your covers. Piece of cake,” Koenig finished, eternally more cheerful than the people surrounding him.

“Says the guy who isn’t running the hack,” Skye muttered.

“Luckily,” Koenig continued, “your identities were not among those leaked during the initial Hydra debacle.”

“If by luck you mean unappreciated genius,” Skye interrupted quietly, raising an eyebrow in Fitz’s direction. He grinned at her turn of phrase and shook his head, but Koenig seemed completely unfazed by her comment, continuing full-steam ahead. 

“Anyone who knew Garrett would know you, but it’s pretty unlikely anyone that high up in Hydra is slumming it with the Wellers on a regular basis.”

“Look.” Coulson moved forward again, ignoring the rest of the room and speaking directly to Fitz and Simmons. “Technically, you can say no. This is going to be hard, and not just because you’re going to have to squeeze three years’ worth of undercover training into less than thirty days. If you think there’s no way you can do this, tell me now. But this is SHIELD’s best chance at infiltrating this crime syndicate, to figure out how they’re connected to Hydra before they know SHIELD’s coming. What d’you think?” 

The whole room stared at the two scientists, but Fitz ignored them, turning to make eye contact with Simmons. For a moment, as he watched the thin, unmoving line of her mouth, he wondered if she was going to shake her head no. This mission sounded like exactly the kind of thing that no one had ever expected him to be able to do, but after Hydra – after he’d been dismissed like a pawn to be used at Garrett’s whim – Fitz had harbored an urgent, secret desire to prove that he could do more than that. That he could do more than tinker with gadgets and watch other people be the hero. No matter what anyone had expected of him as a kid, or after he failed the field test for the third time – he would prove them all wrong.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Simmons gave the barest of nods back to him, and he smiled gently back at her, turning back to Coulson. “Yeah, we can do it.”

Coulson’s exhale spoke of a deep sense of relief, but Fitz didn’t miss the way that May’s eyes dipped downwards behind him, implying a sense of worry that seemed out of place for someone normally so composed. The meeting continued, as Coulson explained the various ways that the Playground would be supporting them while they were in the field, but Fitz tuned it out, guessing that most of this was covered in his thesis-length file. Instead, he turned to look at Simmons; her cheeks were faintly pink but her jaw was set, hands steady as she took notes in the margins of her own set of papers. Fitz’s mind was definitely made up, then; if Simmons was in this mission for the long haul, so was he.

 

\------

 

 _Fifty-Ninth Day_ (Part 1)

 

The whole room was still, except for the man kneeling on the floor, tremors running through his whole body. The “rec room” in the Wellers’ Boarding House (as it was so quaintly called, although it served as their general headquarters) was the largest space on the primarily residential second floor, and, despite its name, recreation was not its only use. Poker and billiards were constant activities, played for high stakes and their respective tables bookending the room, but the syndicate leader often used it to air his grievances. Jemma had noted a few days ago that it was almost like a medieval throne room, designated for the leader of this amorphous crime family to call for action and have his will be done.

Tonight, the lights were dimmed and the permanently shut blinds glowed a dim amber, turning Charlie Weller’s stoop into a menacing, hunchbacked silhouette as he stood over his subject. The man had been caught siphoning money out of one of Charlie’s “legitimate” business operations and then was intercepted in his now-totaled truck on the way to the police station. Cuts and slashes peppered his skin from when one of Charlie’s thugs had pulled him from the flipped vehicle, and he was absently rubbing his hands over his arms, spreading the blood like thinned paint.

Fitz leaned against the faded, striped wallpaper by the door with his arms crossed, concentrating all his energy on maintaining an impassive face. No matter what he’d like, they couldn’t save everyone; this was their first whole night in the rec room, and they had to ensure a repeat invitation. As she leaned against his shoulder, eyes scanning the room, Jemma seemed to be doing a better job than he at keeping her face calm, a façade of boredom effectively masking any anxiety she was surely feeling. 

Boarding house regulars were scattered around the room, some still holding billiard cues and others guarding their chips, waiting for Charlie to finish whatever he’d started. Georgie, Charlie’s thirty-something-year-old daughter, was twisting her billiard cue in annoyance, and Nate, Charlie’s callous right-hand man, stood behind his boss, leaning forward in a way that was supposed to look nonchalant but reeked of eagerness. The timing of this particular “trial” seemed overly convenient to Fitz, who suspected that Charlie had ordered his grunts to go after the man when he’d be sure to have an audience.

“Well, I can’t just let you go, now, can I, Jones?” Charlie’s southern accent was thicker tonight than usual, an extra lilt hanging over the end of each word. He’d spent almost two decades in the seediest parts of Queens, New York, earning his death-and-crime-tainted “stripes,” and his accent had faded enough that he didn’t always sound like he had been born only a few miles away from where his lair now stood. The accent was now something he used as a weapon of its own, wielded as psychological warfare of a subtler sort.

The man at his feet didn’t respond, having stilled at the sound of his judge’s voice. “What can I do to make sure you don’t go right back out there to talk to the police, hmm? Knowing where your great-aunt lives is a help, but that just don’t seem like enough.” He lifted his head, a smile teasing at his mouth, and scanned the faces of his rapt audience. “Don’t y’all agree?” Scattered murmurs of agreement peppered the room, but neither Fitz nor Jemma made a noise. Later, Fitz would assume this had been their mistake, their collective silence and perceived disapproval drawing the egomaniac’s attention straight to him.

“New fella, c’mon over here.”

Jemma’s arm flinched against his side and Fitz raised an eyebrow, quickly brushing his hand against her lower back as he pushed away from the wall, trying to reassure her in a way that wouldn’t belie his own, potent nerves. He strode over to Charlie, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“You seem to be fittin’ in pretty well, you two.” A snort escaped from Nate, and Charlie flashed a harsh glare behind him. “You’ve saved my ass once already, and I’ve been thinkin’ about making this a more permanent sorta thing. But not everyone’s just as fond of y’all as I am. So, you wanna stay here with us? See how we can help each other?” 

Fitz glanced at Jemma, who lifted her chin and smirked, a show of deference to underscore their marriage and partnership – there was no real question what his answer would be.

“Yeah, we do,” he answered, pleased and almost surprised when his voice came out calmly, detached in the way that he’d practiced so often in the Playground and the motel rooms in which he and Jemma had been living.

Charlie grinned and clapped him on the back, squeezing his shoulder through his leather jacket. “Good man. Then I’m gonna need you to teach Jones here a lesson for me. To prove to everyone else that you can make it with our kind.”

Fitz stared back into the crime boss’s eyes and narrowed his own, giving him a brusque nod before turning his attention to the man kneeling at his feet. His pistol pressed lightly into his lower back, but Fitz rejected that option out of hand, hoping that his other idea would suffice. 

He thought back to one of his undercover lessons with Trip, replaying the conversation in his head to distract himself as he searched the room, looking without moving.

_“Sorry man, but you don’t exactly look like a hardened criminal. Hell, you could probably pass for a college kid. This means that you’re gonna have to find a way to compensate for your looks.”_

_“I suppose my far-above-average intelligence and advanced education isn’t going to suffice.”_

_Trip gave him half of a smile, shaking his head and then making eye contact, expression rueful and serious. “You’re gonna have to be vicious, Fitz.”_

His eyes landed on the billiard balls, and he pointed at the table, looking at Georgie. “Give me the cue ball.” She gave him a confused look but did as he asked, tossing it across the room. When Fitz caught it, he threw it in the air a couple times, testing its weight in his hand as it slid out of his fingers and landed back in his palm with a gentle thwack.

“Darling,” called Jemma from the doorway, stepping towards him as she undid the scarf tied around her hair as a headband. “For your hand.” She pressed the cloth into his hand and gave him a quick kiss; it worked as part of their cover, but Fitz knew that it was just as much to remind him that she was beside him in every part of this mission, no matter how abhorrent his actions may seem.

Fitz circled the man as he wrapped the synthetic satin around his knuckles, taking deep breaths and reminding himself that this was for a purpose – and that this wasn’t really _him_. The Married Marksman had taken over, leaving Leopold Fitz at the wayside, waiting for the day when he could deserve that name again.

His hand wrapped with the headband, he settled the billiard ball firmly into the center of his palm and curled his fingers around it, trying not to be revolted by the shine in Charlie’s eyes, the room collectively holding its breath. Without warning, Fitz swung his arm back and slammed his fist sharply into the kneeling man’s jaw, feeling the sickening crunch as bones fractured in its wake and the man crashed to the floor, head snapping back from the impact. Not allowing himself to feel the bile rising to the back of his throat, Fitz stepped over the man’s body to grab his shirt collar, raising him up enough that he could easily reach his head. Fitz struck with his fist over and over again, the billiard ball adding enough weight to make every punch loud and harsh, Jemma’s flower-patterned headband blotting the blood until the cloth was saturated, and he told himself with each swing that vicious had to be enough.


	2. Strike the Match, Play it Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz fell asleep using Jemma's breathing as a lullaby, picturing her smile on every breath in and her eyes on every breath out, desperately hoping that she would still look at him that way tomorrow, in the sharp relief of daylight.

_Fifteenth Day_ (Part 2)

 

Two hours later, Fitz was handcuffed and being led down a hallway in the Atlanta Police Department, grinning and feeling very smug about how well their plan was working. A few steps away another police officer was leading Jemma, who was trying to smile like she wanted to be here. For all their training, the perennial, self-described “good girl” was clearly having doubts about being imprisoned (even temporarily), teeth worrying her bottom lip.

Eyeing their audience around the station, and unsure if the holding cells could see them from here, Fitz yanked his hands away from the officer and pressed a fast, messy kiss to Jemma’s lips. He lingered, telling himself it was because he needed to speak to her and not because the softness of her lips made him dizzy, brushing his lips against hers once more. “It’s gonna be okay,” he breathed, wincing as his now-very-grumpy escort pulled him sharply back across the hall.  Jemma finally smiled as he stumbled after the police officer, her eyes lighting up in genuine amusement, and Fitz allowed himself to exhale. They couldn’t afford any character breaks now.

A few minutes later, they’d completed their paperwork – filled in forms with the names Scott Fitzgerald and Jemma Harker, had their mug shots snapped, and tried not to alienate their respective police officers any further. What happened now was dependent on people who were not-so-fond of this strange British-invasion crime sensation, and that made Fitz anxious enough that he let the cocky, devil-may-care smile drop, switching to a decent imitation of a scowl.

The holding cells were behind a grimy steel door, the never-washed concrete floor scuffing under Fitz’s boots and the bustle of the main office dulled in favor of near-silence. An inebriated homeless man slept in the first cell, arm flung through the bars and a faint snore eking through the slats of the wooden bench that served as his bed. The only other cell – the one into which their guards shoved Fitz and Jemma – was occupied by one individual, familiar from more briefings and memorization sessions than Fitz could count. The wiry older man with slate gray hair, stooped shoulders that belied a surprising amount of strength for one his age, and softer, hazel eyes, stared curiously back at his new cell-mates.

Jemma flashed Fitz a quick grin – _the game is on_ – and then gave the guard who was locking their cage-like door the two-fingered ‘up yours’ symbol. Laughing at her improvisation, Fitz grabbed and kissed her, pulling her to him by the waist and then watching the other officers disappear to the main office. 

“Not exactly the nicest holding cells we’ve seen.”

Jemma hummed in agreement. “That _must_ be the one in Westchester – with those little plastic seats.”

“Not a big fan of benches, you,” Fitz murmured back, rubbing his nose against hers and causing her to giggle. 

“And everything was _blue_! It was so refreshing – I can’t stand this color.” She waved her hand dismissively at the ceiling of the cell.

“They say taupe is very soothing,” the stranger broke in. His voice was low and pleasantly gravelly and he smiled at them from his seat, although he stood when they both turned to him, acting as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Charlie Weller.” He held his hand out to Fitz, who removed his own from Jemma’s waist to return a firm, sharp handshake.

“Scott Fitzgerald –”

“But you can call him Fitz,” Jemma interrupted, smiling up at him.

“And this is my wife, Jemma Harker.” 

Charlie dropped Fitz’s hand, giving them a perplexed look. “Different names?” 

Jemma shrugged. “I never had time to change it.” 

“We sort of got married on the run,” Fitz added, breaking away from Jemma to sit on one of the grimy, wooden benches and stretch out his legs.

Shaking his head, Charlie sat opposite him. “Guess it’s different with you Europeans. Down south here, it’s tradition to change your name. Criminals or not,” he added with a sly grin.

Jemma leaned against the cell bars, keeping an eye on the location of the guarding police officer. “We have never been especially traditional about our relationship.”

“I s’pose not,” Charlie chuckled before studying Fitz out of the corner of his eye. “And you just go by Fitz...? Kinda an odd nickname.” 

Although it was said lightly, Fitz suspected that the man was testing him in some way, and gave a derisive laugh. “D’you have any fucking idea how many people asked me to ‘beam them up’ when they realized I was a Scot named bloody _Scott_? I don’t fucking think so. Fitz suits me just fine.”

“And don’t call him Gerald,” Jemma added. “He gets testy.”

Charlie chortled, glancing from one to the other. “ _Testy_? I just can’t see y’all ever being... well. You can’t be older’n twenty-five.” 

Fitz narrowed his eyes, staring at his boots. “Last time it happened, I shot the bastard in the foot.”

“To be fair, darling, he was also trying to deprive us of our rightful share of that bank job.”

“Yeah, but no one calls me Gerald and gets to live.”

“He _did_ live.”

“That’s only because he was a fellow Scot. Can’t kill my countrymen unless it’s unavoidable.” They hadn’t really had an opportunity to try out their covers on other people for very long yet, and Fitz was surprised to find that, for the moment, it was a hell of a lot of fun. The older man watched their banter with amused fascination, eyes swiveling from one to the other without moving his head.

“He’s sure got a lot of rules, huh?” He directed this at Jemma, who smiled softly at Fitz. It was supposed to be a “fond-spouse” kind of smile, but Fitz wasn’t sure it was that different from the way she normally looked at him. He made a mental note to tell her to work on that later.

“And good men don’t need so many,” Fitz muttered this under his breath, as if it was something he wasn’t saying for Charlie’s benefit, and slid his eyes over to catch Jemma’s reaction. Predictably, she pursed her lips in a way that meant she’d scold him when they were alone, presumably along the lines of how today was _not_ the time to quote his favorite, not-so-obscure-anymore British television show. Unsurprisingly, though, Charlie didn’t pick up on the reference, instead raising an eyebrow as he studied the younger man sitting across from him. “So, Charlie Welan, what’re you in here for?”

“Weller,” Charlie corrected, as Fitz had expected he would, and then shrugged. “Oh, they’re just throwin’ spaghetti at the wall. Not even sure what it is this time.”

“What, do the police have something against you personally?”

“Of course they do, Jem,” Fitz interjected. “They’re the police. Having something against law-abiding citizens is what they do best.” He grinned. “Not that we’d know, exactly. We haven’t been law-abiding for some time.” 

Charlie chuckled. “I know your type – adrenaline junkies. I used...” Before he could finish his thought, his eyes widened and he leaned forward. “Hold up a minute – you’re Brits, and married. Y’all aren’t the Married Marksmen by any chance, are ya?” 

Jemma grinned smugly at Fitz, as if this was something they’d been discussing recently. “I told you the name would stick.”

“It makes us sound like bloody cartoon characters, Jem!” He groaned, kicking his foot at the edge of the other bench in faux-anger. “Fucking Daily Mail.”

“Don’t be too upset about it, son,” Charlie said with more than a tinge of amusement. “Y’all may not love it, but it sure makes you memorable. I saw a whole little story about you on CNN last week. You’ve pulled some crazy shit.”

Fitz held his hand out to Jemma, pulling her into his lap. She pressed two soft kisses to his lips, and he tried to quell the genuine flutter this caused in the pit of his stomach.

“And we’re always about to do some more,” Jemma said, grinning slyly over at their cellmate. 

“When did you say you were gonna be released?” Fitz shifted Jemma over slightly, watching the police officer finish up his bi-hourly check of the cells.

Charlie shrugged, not seeming unduly concerned. “Probably within twenty-four hours.”

The two others shared a conspiratorial look, and when Jemma gave Fitz a nod he leaned over to whisper to their new _friend_ : “How would you feel about getting out a few hours earlier?”

 

\------

 

 _Fifty-Ninth Day_ (Part 2)

 

“That’s enough, son.” 

At Charlie’s voice, Fitz curled his arm back for the last time and released the man’s collar, what used to be a face now swollen to the point of being unrecognizable. He glanced up and Charlie nodded at him, waving at one of his nameless grunts to get rid of the man. A chilling rattle echoed from the unconscious man’s throat as they carried him away, hopefully to dump him at the emergency room entrance of a nearby hospital. 

Pulling air desperately into his straining lungs, Fitz realized he was still holding the crimson-smudged billiard ball and dropped it, watching it roll past his silent audience, slowing until at last it halted a dozen feet away, the momentum lost.

“Alright then,” Charlie said, patting Fitz’s back and startling him out of his reverie. “You should go clean up. Ethan’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

Deciding that maintaining his earlier taciturn mood was the best way to disguise the fierce nausea that was threatening to claw up the back of his throat, Fitz just squeezed Charlie’s shoulder with his left hand and turned to the door. Jemma rushed to him, giving Georgie a falsely-fond wave before opening the door and following him into the hallway. 

As soon as they were alone, Fitz sagged against her, trying to hold his own weight but his vision blurring out. She murmured for the car keys and then fished them out of his jacket pocket, steering him towards the back stairs that should hide them from prying criminal eyes. Somehow, she managed to get them both to the car without being seen; Fitz couldn’t have said how even as it was happening, his mind frozen from thought or acceptance.

An indefinite amount of time later, he found himself in the passenger seat of the Aston-Martin, vaguely aware that Jemma was driving, and caught a glimpse of himself in the side mirror. Splotches of blood covered his face, mingling with sweat and running down his skin, the drops trailing painfully slowly over his lips. He managed to get out a choked order for her to hit the brakes before swinging the door open over the slowing concrete and violently throwing up just over the edge of the car. His whole body clenched with the convulsions as if to expel the very night from himself, his own organs rejecting his cover identity.

As his sickness faded into dry heaving, Jemma was beside him, crouching in the door of the car and murmuring that she was right there, for him to breathe in slowly, to try not to hyperventilate. She wiped a wet cloth down his face, and he noted dimly that it was the same color of the sweater she’d been wearing that evening. Fitz realized that he still had the bloody headband wrapped tightly around his knuckles and he cried out, frantically pulling at the cloth, but Jemma closed her hands around his and deftly removed it, dropping it into the gutter.

Sobs climbed up the back of his throat and Jemma wrapped her arms firmly around his shaking shoulders, holding him as tightly as she could so that it was impossible for him to forget that she was there with him, as she had been all along.

“What did I – God, Jemma, what did I _do_?” Fitz squeezed out, breaths coming out in sharp gasps. 

“Your job,” she answered immediately, voice as steady as her hands against his back. After a moment’s thought, she moved her hands to his shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. “That wasn’t _you_ in there, Fitz. That was your cover, and he did exactly what he had to. Okay?” When he shifted his gaze away from hers, she pulled his chin back. “I need an answer, Fitz. Okay?”

He took in a long, shaky breath, feeling the panic subside under her watch. “Yeah.” 

Jemma smiled encouragingly at him. “Good. Now, do you want to go see if they brought him to the hospital?”

Fitz hesitated, but the idea of seeing his own handiwork again brought bile up to the back of his throat, his stomach now devoid of anything else. He shook his head. “Can you ask Skye to check in on him?”

“Of course,” she said. “The motel, then?”

“Yeah.”

Later, after he had showered and Jemma had finished cleaning and wrapping Fitz’s hand with proper white bandages, he lay on their shared bed and stared at the mottled-beige ceiling. Normally they kept to their own sides of the bed; the sharing was for the benefit of any unexpected visitors and for the desk staff, who could be expected to leak information about them for the least amount of recompense. Tonight, though, once she was in her pajamas Jemma slid under the covers and curled tentatively around Fitz’s side, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I’m right here, Fitz. Don’t ever forget that.”

Choosing to concentrate on the coolness of her skin and the warmth of her body instead of looking at her face, terrified of the pity he would see there, Fitz nodded, wrapping his arms around her. He fell asleep using her breathing as a lullaby, picturing her smile on every breath in and her eyes on every breath out, desperately hoping that she would still look at him that way tomorrow, in the sharp relief of daylight.

 

\------

 

 _Ten Days Before the Mission_ (Part 1)

 

Fitz stared at what felt like piles of papers covering the main table in the briefing room, somewhat dumbfounded that they all pertained to him in some way. And Simmons, of course, but since Fitz held the private opinion that books could probably be written about her that didn’t seem as strange. The dozen or so people most heavily involved in their pre-mission training were meeting to check their progress, and he was trying not to feel too much like something in one of Simmons’ microscope slides.

“Physicals?” Coulson was snapping out one-word questions, expecting the relevant person to jump in with the answer without hesitation.

“Simmons cleared them both yesterday,” responded May, who had the fastest answers to Coulson’s questions more often than not.

“How can Simmons do her own physical?” Skye was working through the meeting, typing busily on her laptop as she scrubbed the real identities of the people whose lives they were subsuming.

“Because I’m a professional, Skye,” Simmons muttered, standing next to Fitz and skimming through a file folder. 

“And we have machines that do most of that for us,” he added, giving Simmons a pointed look when she rolled her eyes at him.

Coulson tossed one file away and grabbed another. “Undercover training?” 

“Going well, sir,” answered Trip. “We’re about halfway through – we start individual sessions tomorrow, with May taking over Simmons’ training.”

“Have you worked on their marriage yet?” This time May asked the question, looking up from the table for the first time the whole briefing.

“Yes, they’ve both passed history drills –” 

“I’m not talking about the story.”

Trip blinked at her, his mouth setting into a slight frown at the implication that he was being lapse in his training duties. “We haven’t had time for anything else yet – any physical training has been with you, doing combat.” 

Skye dropped the pen she’d been gnawing to stare at Trip, flicking her eyes over to where Fitz stood, his ears getting uncomfortably warm at the constant attention. “‘Physical training’ – oh my God, are you talking about...” 

“The best way to sell a false marriage is to act affectionately in public,” May interrupted.

“Oh man, _that_ is going to be a fun day of training,” Skye said, hiding a snort of laughter as Simmons shot her a glare. “I mean, you’ve been best friends for a million years. And it’s not like either of you are Don Juans –”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fitz crossed his arms, feeling the weight of everyone else’s persistent doubts about his ability to do anything other than tinker with machines.

“It means that she doubts whether you can act romantically in public convincingly,” May said, scrutinizing the two scientists while not appearing to do so. Without looking, Fitz was sure that Simmons was as red as he was now, although he imagined her flush was probably because of embarrassment instead of his anger. 

“We’re not bloody recluses, May,” Fitz snapped, his tone unfortunately causing the rest of the room to focus their attention directly onto him. 

“We didn’t sit around in our Academy lab _eating paste_ , either,” Simmons chimed in, staring pointedly at an abashed Skye, the undercurrent of annoyance in her voice fueling Fitz’s own indignation.

“Yeah, but, c’mon guys,” Skye said, trying to be conciliatory and not succeeding especially well. “Dating other people isn’t the same. It’s not like you’ve ever even kissed each other. That’s what May –”

“Oh for God’s sake, _here_.” Without giving much thought to anything other than his anger, Fitz grabbed Simmons’ face and pressed his lips against hers, feeling the cool skin of her fingers rest gently over his hands as he slanted open her mouth. Although this wasn’t technically their first kiss, it _was_ the first time Fitz had initiated it and something warm settled in the pit of his stomach, pulsing outwards as she ghosted her lips over his again before pulling away.

Someone rustled papers at the other end of the room, but it was otherwise completely silent when Fitz turned away from Simmons to glare at May and Skye. “Maybe you remember that we went to school together? Geniuses play spin the bottle, too, you know.”

Skye’s mouth dropped open. “Holy crap, do I need to know what _that_ was like.”

“Combat training?”

Coulson’s voice permeated the uncomfortable silence and suddenly everything was exactly as it had been two minutes before, people reading through papers, marking notes and status reports. Taking a deep breath, Fitz felt an enormous well of gratitude for the Director, who always seemed to know more than he said. Simmons squeezed Fitz’s arm and smiled thinly, letting him know that she hadn’t minded his impulsive moment of exasperation, before turning back to the training report that she’d been reading. As he grabbed a file just to have something to hold, the echo of their first kiss floated into his head, vague and blurry and marred by time and alcohol, memorable only for the fact that it wasn’t.

If Fitz had allowed himself to be honest (which he wasn’t), the kiss they’d just shared was a much better “first,” even if it had been done at work in front of a dozen colleagues. His ears flushed pink, and he tried to distract himself with the file in front of him, unsuccessfully working to convince himself that he did not want a repeat performance.

 

\------

 

 _Fifteenth Day_ (Part 3)

 

Running at full tilt down an alleyway, Fitz glanced behind him to make sure that his new accomplice was keeping up. Although not a young man, Charlie was holding his own, only a few long strides behind him. When they rounded the corner, Fitz made an indistinct noise of happiness that he was rather glad Jemma wasn’t around to hear (and taunt him about) at the sight of his Aston-Martin.

“There y’are, baby girl.”

As Fitz slowed to an abrupt stop at the driver’s side door to turn the non-automatic key, Charlie whistled. “That’s a hell of a ride.” 

Finally unlocking the car, Fitz flashed him a grin as he ducked in and turned over the engine. “Isn’t she a beauty? Jem found it for me as an anniversary present.”

Buckling himself in, Charlie laughed. “She bought you a car for your anniversary?” 

With the motor purring happily and car in gear, Fitz turned around in the driver’s seat. “Stole it from a car show.” 

As was everything else he’d told Charlie, this wasn’t even vaguely true, although, as Jemma had once noted, it had a rather romantic ring to it. When they’d been working through the basics of their cover, Coulson had shown up one day holding the keys to this vintage stunner, having rustled it up from some police department auction. The Director had simply slid the keys across the table towards FitzSimmons and said: “Better practice evasive driving.” Fitz had made a few improvements under the hood (although there wasn’t time to spiff up the poorly-maintained interior, much to his dismay), and he not-so-secretly hoped that SHIELD would let him keep it once the mission was over.

The passenger-side door swung open and Jemma hopped in, cheeks flushed from running. “Got them!” She held out their black-and-white mug shots, which she’d gone back to knick from the administrator’s desk. One of the rather odd quirks of the couple whose criminal identities they’d stolen is that they apparently had a fondness for breaking into police stations to steal back their own mug shots; since they were already in the station, Jemma had decided to kill two birds with the proverbial stone. “I thought I’d go with a classic look this time.” 

Fitz leaned over, pretending to consider her picture. “A bit similar to the one from Manchester.” 

Jemma’s mouth dropped open, insulted. “It is not!”

He rolled his eyes and shifted gears to get ready to take off. “You look bloody gorgeous in both, so hush.” She smiled and cooed, pressing an affectionate kiss to his cheek. A part of Fitz wanted to shake his head and give her a wry look for _cooing_ , but he knew far better than to break character for something so ludicrous.

“Can we quit the neckin’ and get going?” Charlie snapped from the backseat, tapping his feet against the floor. Refusing to be intimidated by the syndicate leader, and to let the other man know that he wouldn’t be pushed around, Fitz leaned over to give Jemma a lingering, open-mouthed kiss before slamming the accelerator to the floor. 

“Fuckin’ A, no wonder they call y’all the Married Marksmen,” Charlie grumbled. “Might as well’ve been escaping from a family reunion as prison.”

“It’s all the same to us,” Jemma laughed, using the side mirror to fix her hair. 

“Now,” Charlie said, leaning forward. “I would really love to know about that gadget you used to get us outta there. How’d you get it past the cops?”

Fitz turned the wheel sharply, banking away from the more crowded streets downtown. “Every thief’s got his secrets.”

“A thief with that kind of secret’s gonna be real interesting to a person of my, ah, particular interests.” Fitz glanced at Charlie in the rearview; disconcertingly, he was staring right back at him in the mirror. “Why don’t y’all take me back to my place of business and we can see about getting you some steady work.” 

Another fast turn around a corner and the back of the car fishtailed, skittering back into place just before hitting traffic going in the opposite direction. “How does that sound to you, babe?”

Jemma raised an eyebrow at Fitz and grinned, eyes shining at their success. “Let’s try it out – I can _not_ remember the last time we had a real job.” 

“The summer you worked at Tesco’s, remember?”

“Awww, yes, that’s right! Our first robbery – an inside job, even.” She laughed, resting her hand on his thigh, and Fitz couldn’t even hear Charlie’s vague grunt of disgust over the pounding of adrenaline in his ears.

 

\------

 

 _Eighty-Sixth Day_ (Part 1)

 

Somewhere in the rec room, a stereo played a rock song with a brash, heady beat that was almost making Fitz’s head swim as if he’d been drinking heavily. The real reason was that Jemma was sitting on his lap, and he was leaning his chin on her shoulder, and after even just a few beers that was enough to distract him completely. They were at the rec room’s poker table, and Jemma was playing for them both – she really rather excelled at cards, which he’d only learned back at the Academy after she’d grifted more than a few hundred dollars off of him. Of what was available, billiards was really more his speed, but he’d lost his appetite for the game after using their cue ball to bludgeon a man almost to death.

(He still had nightmares about it often enough that he was glad for Jemma’s presence in their shared bed. When he woke up, sweaty and panicked, sometimes she would awaken and calm him down, holding his hand until he fell back asleep. Other times she wouldn’t wake, and watching her sleep would return his heartbeat to normal, Jemma’s very existence exorcising his dreamed demons.)

“Call.” Jemma leaned back into his chest as she watched the other players flip over their cards, smirking before turning over her own, winning hand. The others groaned as she gathered the new pile of chips towards her already considerable collection, and Fitz caused the whole bunch to come toppling over when he pulled her around for a long, heated kiss.

After Jemma moved away for air, grinning over her blush, he smiled at her, ignoring the table’s muttering. “Now _that_ ’s why I married you.”

She started piling up her winnings again, sorting them into even piles. “I thought it was because I was the best lock pick you’d ever had the fortune to meet at the ripe old age of sixteen.”

“And I wouldn’t kick you out of bed, either,” he said in a faux-whisper, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her back against his chest.

“Fitz!” She tutted, feigning embarrassment, swatting his hands away so she could return to counting her winnings, but he leaned forward so that his lips were close enough to brush against the shell of her ear.

“Time to go, I think,” Fitz whispered. “Laugh like I’m saying something scandalous.” The other players seemed to be getting more than a little irked at her winning streak, and he thought it would be best to quit while they were ahead, retreating to their rec room-adjacent apartment.

Quick as ever, Jemma froze and then leaned back into him, breaking off a giggle as she murmured, “Now?” Instead of answering, he pressed two slow kisses to her neck and then raised an eyebrow. “Time for bed, I think!” Jemma exclaimed, an authentic-looking flush rising up the back of her neck.

By the time they’d finished collecting their winnings, Charlie was in the middle of dealing out a new hand, eyeing the two of them as they stumbled away from the table. Fitz stopped their progress to kiss Jemma again, smiling as she giggled against his lips, both of them teetering slightly off-balance but catching themselves.

“Horniest married couple I ever saw,” Charlie muttered, counting out his buy-in.

Burt, a scruffy gambling addict who never seemed to leave the rec room, guffawed. “Yeah, fer summat who never ‘ave sex.”

Fitz froze against Jemma, feeling her body tense as he tried to turn back to the table in a casually-insulted way. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

The table’s half-dozen other occupants were all silent, including Charlie, who glanced back at Burt. The gambler shrugged. “I’m in here all day, every day, right on th’other side of their wall, and I ain’t ever heard so much as a whimper from that room since they moved in.”

“Maybe Fitzgerald don’t know how to please his woman,” Nate added, sniggering at the thought. 

Fitz opened his mouth to snap back at Nate, but Burt spoke first. “Naw, even bad sex is louder’n that. Ain’t nothing happening in there.”

“This is bloody horseshite,” Fitz scoffed, barely noticing that Jemma had separated herself from him. “The walls aren’t _that_ thin –”

“I don’t know about that,” Charlie interrupted, shuffling his own hand of cards as he coolly studied Fitz’s face. “The last renter of that apartment used to hire prostitutes and have night terrors about finding his grandmama dead in the bathroom. We used to hear botha those just fine.”

The rest of the rec room realized that something was happening at the poker table, and the silence stretched on and on and on. Fitz could feel his throat closing up, his brain stuck on simply accusing Burt of lying, ruing the fact that they’d used their faked desire for each other to escape the rec room so often in the past week. It had become so easy after pretending to be someone else all day – a few passionate kisses, some murmured words, and they had a ready-made escape. But it seemed they were being watched as much as they were watching, and despite all their hard training Fitz couldn’t get his brain back into gear.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, darling, just _tell_ them,” Jemma said, her voice shaking as she patted his arm. Fitz frowned down at her, and she sighed, turning to Charlie and crossing her arms. “For the record, I do not like sharing this, but since Americans seem _so_ interested in the private lives of others...” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “When you’re married, you have to find ways to spice things up in the bedroom, and recently, we’ve... well, I suppose you could say that silence can be really quite a turn-on. Especially if you’re the enforcer.” Nate choked on his beer, and Fitz hoped that his eyebrows raising practically to his hairline seemed like surprise at his wife revealing this in public, as opposed to his genuine shock. Charlie just continued to watch them, skeptical. “Although,” Jemma added, turning to face Fitz. “I think we’re done with that for a while, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Fitz forced out, swallowing thickly. “Now that you’ve just talked about it to the whole bloody room.”

At last, Charlie chuckled, tapping his cards impatiently in front of the person whose turn it was. “Two adrenaline junkies like you – guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” The whole room shifted back into real time, then, and the poker table began the next game.

As he tried to repress the shaking in his hands, Fitz held the rec room door open and then followed Jemma down the hall, walking backwards, with one hand on his pistol, to see if anyone would pursue them. Once they were inside and Jemma had locked the door, Fitz exhaled and leaned all of his body weight on a faded green armchair.

Jemma’s hands immediately flew up to her neck and she started pacing, muttering as she went. “Oh God, oh God, oh God...” She spun back to him, eyes wide and breath shallow. “We were almost burned.”

“Yeah,” he answered, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “We have a big fucking problem.”


	3. The Lights, the Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma paced furiously back and forth at the end of their bed, hands gripping her neck hard enough that Fitz was worried she’d leave nail marks. For his part, his mind had gone completely blank, convinced that any second now Nate would burst into their miniscule apartment and shoot them where they stood. Or, in Jemma’s case, paced.

_Sixty-Seventh Day_

No one questioned them when Fitz and Jemma stumbled towards the back of the first floor, grasping onto each other and lips colliding haphazardly as they bumped into walls, oh-so-clearly making their way towards a more private room. The real reason for their back room search, of course, was not because they just _couldn’t_ wait until they got to their motel room, but because Fitz had an updated, camouflaged version of the network data scanner in his hand. After delays in getting the device to them (what SHIELD had been doing with their time, Fitz didn’t know, but if they hadn’t received it four days previously he was on the verge of scrounging up the parts to make one himself), this was their first chance to bug Charlie’s office.

Almost no one was allowed into this particular back room; one of his quirks was that he liked doing most of his syndicate-leading in front of his crew, and so the office was an unknown quantity. But after a few weeks of gentle prodding, listening, and general spy-work, Jemma had concluded that any information connecting the organization to Hydra must be in the office, through which any Weller electronic communication was likely filtered. Coulson had instructed them not to attempt searching the room themselves – maintaining their covers and working their way up the Weller hierarchy was more valuable to SHIELD.

So here they were, sliding their way slowly along the wall, with Fitz clutching the nearly-invisible device to Jemma’s back as he sucked gently at her pulse point. Normally, he would be completely distracted by her closeness and the whimpers she was making in the back of her throat, but the palpable fear of someone catching him with his hand on the office doorway had effectively ruined any mood that the dark hallway could have created. 

“It’s the next door,” Jemma whispered, voice steady but breath hitching as he accidentally grazed his teeth a little too sharply against her skin.

“Shite, sorry,” he muttered, resisting the urge to move away and see if he’d left a mark, pressing light kisses to the reddened area instead. Jemma just hummed in response, and he reminded himself that armed men could find them here at any moment.

Finally, his left hand bumped into a doorframe and they stopped moving, Jemma reaching her hands around and up the back of his leather jacket. He slid his hand up the wall above her head as if to support himself while kissing his wife, but actually searching for a good, flat part of the frame on which to plant the device concealed in his palm. After a few moments, he pressed the flat object firmly against the wood, waiting for it to buzz once to signal it had been activated before shifting his arm back along the wall.

Fitz exhaled as Jemma peppered kisses down his neck, adrenaline surging as he realized that they’d successfully infiltrated the forbidden back office of the Wellers’ headquarters without any kind of action or bloodshed. Well, SHIELD had to confirm that it was transmitting data, but since the device was of his own invention Fitz was confident that it worked. He cupped Jemma’s jaw with his other hand and allowed himself to kiss her again, probably stretching credibility in how necessary this was for their cover but not caring, especially when her tongue parted his lips.

“Now what?” He said a few moments later, grinning down at her as he pulled away, suddenly feeling the rash desire to drive too fast or bet too high. Jemma tilted her head up, streetlights filtering through the messy hair around her face, and smiled widely, his excitement clearly catching.

“Well,” she whispered, tracing the buttons on his shirt, “I think we have two options. Return to the rec room and pretend that this was a ‘quickie’ –”

“Oh, _that_ ’d be great for my reputation,” Fitz deadpanned, still sensitive about the dismissive looks he got from many of Charlie’s other hired guns.

“Or,” Jemma continued, giving him a small eye-roll. “We sneak out the back and say we decided to go back to the motel.”

“Option two, please.”

They both laughed as quietly as possible, and Fitz slung an arm around her shoulders as she put one around his waist, carefully ambling towards the exit. 

“What about a drive?” Fitz kept his voice low as they rounded the corner. “I don’t want to just sit in the room for another bloody night.” Jemma nodded, pushing against the door to the back hallway, and opened her mouth to respond – but they both froze as the door swung shut behind them. 

Partially hidden by a burned-out bulb and the staircase railing, on the other side of the anteroom were two people clearly in the throes of intense, passionate sex. If the frantic, rhythmic movements of the partially-clothed man supporting the woman weren’t enough, it was made even clearer by the sounds that filled the enclosed area, heavy panting and moaning and the noisy slick of skin on skin. Fitz drew in a sharp breath, unable to take his eyes off the shadowed and deeply erotic sight, his skin tingling at the knowledge that Jemma was standing mere centimeters away from him – before the part of his brain that wasn’t controlled by his libido kicked in and reminded him that _they could be seen_. 

Without any warning, he grabbed Jemma’s arm where it hung, limp, at her side, and dragged her through the back door, stopping only once he had closed it behind them. They stood there, stunned, side by side but both acutely aware of the fact that they weren’t touching. Fitz tried not to notice that Jemma’s breathing was shallow – tried desperately not to imagine the two of them in that couple’s place, tried not to imagine those moans in Jemma’s voice – and failed.

“Car,” she said at last, clearing the roughness out of her voice. She forced her feet to move first and he followed, wondering if she could possibly be as turned on as he was.

Once they were both seated in the car, Jemma’s hands gripping the wheel despite the fact that she hadn’t turned over the engine, Fitz decided he had to do something to break the silence. All he was doing within it was replaying the scene over and over again – and replacing the participants with himself and his best friend, and he knew he desperately needed to block those thoughts. But Jemma beat him to it, speaking almost as if she’d forgotten he was next to her.

“I wonder if there have been any medical studies done on the correlation between spikes in adrenaline to the desire for copulation.”

He replayed her sentence in his head, and then gave her a quizzical look that she either didn’t notice or studiously avoided. The answer, of course, was that there had to have been – and the chances were that she’d read at least some of them back at the Academy. It was well documented that risk of life often made people want to commit the act that created life in return, but when he opened his mouth to correct her his tongue felt too large and he stalled. Somehow, he wasn’t sure if she was talking about what they’d just seen, or something else entirely.

“Was that...” he started, swallowing over the chalky dryness on his tongue. “Was that Georgie?” Jemma nodded, keeping her eyes fixed somewhere over the hood. “And her husband –”

“Shawn.” She gave her head a small shake and started the car, pulling away from the sidewalk and seeming relieved to have something to discuss that wasn’t the scene itself. “I feel quite badly for him, actually. He’s a very nice man, a doctor, and clearly loves Georgie to pieces, but he had a horrific gambling addiction when they first met. Charlie gave him money for his debts, but now he’s in so deep that he’ll never be able to pay it all off.” 

Fitz knew all this, of course, from mission prep, but he frowned at her summation. “You sound like he has a choice in being involved with the Wellers – but he’s married to a crime boss’s daughter.”

She shrugged and turned the wheel, taking the car around a deserted street corner. “I got the sense last week that he doesn’t much care for the family business. And you never know, Fitz, maybe they could make a go of it together, if they both decided to.”

He made an indistinct noise and leaned back into the Aston-Martin’s worn leather, watching the scattered mid-week clubbers teeter down side streets to the only obscure places open on a Thursday night. So far, he’d managed to keep his feelings for Jemma mostly in check, the danger of their everyday lives helping him focus on keeping them alive rather than on speculating about whether she could possibly ever reciprocate, or dwelling on the now-hundreds of kisses they’d shared. But he suspected that sharing a bed tonight was going to be a problem, and made the snap decision to take a cold shower as soon as they returned to the motel to avoid any further embarrassment.

Jemma turned the car into a lot by a local park and shut it off, giving him a slight smile. “Instead of a drive?" 

Fitz nodded, following her out of the car and along a lamp-lit path. The park was mostly freshly mown grass and bushes, clearly too newly established to have any tall trees to provide shade, and too early in the season for flowers to have bloomed. She strolled a few steps ahead of him, her hands dangling at her sides, and he allowed himself a moment of weakness to just watch her. The outfit she’d chosen for tonight’s mission was practical – tight jeans instead of a skirt – while still matching her cover identity, in the way that her top clung snugly to her waist, the deep dip of the back neckline implying the sort of recklessness on which Jemma Harker thrived. A streetlight’s beam slid over her fair skin, back and shoulder muscles shifting in the shadows as she walked, and Fitz suppressed a frustrated sigh. Some days, he thought he would be content to just be near her for the rest of his life, to be able to glimpse her in peaceful moments like these, not always needing to touch or hold. Thoughts like that, however, were almost always undermined by his overactive brain’s insistence on then remembering exactly what her skin felt like under his hands, warm and responsive and so very soft, and he shook his head, speeding up to walk beside her. 

A white-painted wood-and-iron pavilion stood at the pathways’ center, so they headed for that, pleasantly surprised to find it devoid of homeless people. Having put some time between himself and the shock of stumbling upon two people _in flagrante delicto_ , Fitz smiled as he leaned against the pavilion’s railing, remembering why he’d been so high on adrenaline only half an hour ago.

“We did it, Jemma,” he said. “We got SHIELD in.”

“Hopefully,” she qualified. “We’ll have to hear from Skye or the Director first to confirm that.” Fitz scoffed and pointedly rolled his eyes at her, and she smiled. “But, yes – we completed the mission.” 

“Successfully.” He was determined to be excited about tonight; it was one of the first days they’d had that included good spy-work _and_ no violence.

“Yes, Fitz – successfully.” Jemma nudged his shoulder with hers and stared out over the silvery green landscape, early-season flower buds waving in the breeze. They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, until a couple clearly out on a date walked by and Jemma made a small _tsk_.

“What?”

She groaned, and dropped her face into her hands. “I’m sorry, I... just can’t get that image out of my head.” 

Fitz’s pulse suddenly seemed very loud in his ears. “Oh.”

“I mean, it’s really excellent for them to have that kind of sexual relationship half a decade into their marriage,” she rambled, stepping away from the railing and forcing Fitz to turn to look at her. “It’s very healthy, both physically and psychologically, but....” She turned to him, as if she’d suddenly remembered to whom she was speaking. “I’m sorry, you don’t want to talk about this.” 

Fitz ducked his head, feeling his ears redden. “I don’t – look, it was awkward. Cannot deny that. It’s probably better to get it out there, yeah? So, go ahead.” 

Jemma sighed. “I just can’t help but worry about our cover, after seeing that. I’ve never actually had that kind of relationship, where the need is just so strong....” She shook her head, staring down at the floor. “That toe-curling kind of... passion. And I’m concerned that we won’t be able to act that.” 

“I could make your toes curl, Jemma, don’t you doubt it.” 

He’d spoken quickly, without thinking about to whom he was speaking, somehow having reverted to their lab banter at the worst possible time, and he could feel that flush start to creep up his neck. But something about the reckless high of having just bugged a crime boss’s inner sanctum and gotten away with it made Fitz keep his gaze level with hers, watching her mouth drop open and eyes dart away and back again. Even the flecks of gold in her irises seemed to darken as the tension between them thickened, and Fitz found himself taking a step towards Jemma, not having a bloody clue what he was doing but wanting to do _something_. His pulse sped up as he realized that she wasn’t looking away, wasn’t avoiding his gaze, and he wondered if, maybe....

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket and he winced, breaking eye contact with Jemma and knowing that the moment, whatever it was, had passed. He muttered a curse as he pulled the phone out, but stopped as soon as he saw the text message on his lock screen. 

“What?” Jemma reacted to the height that his eyebrows raised, taking a step forward.

“Ethan’s putting a job together for a week from today, and he wants us on it.” Fitz looked up from the phone and grinned. “What d’you think, Mrs. Harker-Fitzgerald – are we in?”

 

\------

 

 _Ten Days Before the Mission_ (Part 2)

Although it had been hours since that morning’s briefing, when Fitz had let his annoyance get the better of him and he’d spontaneously kissed his partner and best friend in front of over a dozen coworkers, he was still trying to forget his embarrassment as he worked in the lab. Simmons was bustling around behind him, experimenting with a skin-healing gel of some sort, and he was acutely aware of her presence. They’d had what felt like hundreds of prep meetings since receiving the assignment, but this one had gotten under his skin.

Privately, he had more than a few misgivings about pretending to be married to Simmons. The crush (which was all he allowed himself to call it, despite his suppressed awareness that it was something else entirely) he’d been developing ever since he watched her jump off the plane had been growing worrisomely for months, and he suspected that pretending to be her husband was only going to make it worse. Watching Coulson speak about the cellist had made Fitz’s own feelings clear to himself, but he’d spent every moment possible since then forcing himself to ignore them – an endeavor which had had a rather poor success rate, so far.

“Fitz, I’ve been thinking.” Simmons had managed to round his lab table without him noticing and he glanced up over his design sketchbook.

“A rarity,” he teased, grinning at her _tsk_. “Simmons, you overthink nearly everything. It’s why you’re so brilliant.” After she gave him a small smile, he noticed that she was wringing her hands together, a behavior reeking of uncharacteristic nerves for someone as self-assured as his partner. Fitz laid down his notebook and pen. “C’mon, out with it.” 

“As I was saying – I’ve been thinking about our covers, and after that meeting this morning –”

Trying not to reveal the source of his annoyance, Fitz snorted. “Skye enjoyed that far too much–”

“– I decided that we should practice kissing.”

“She isn’t even _going_ on the – what?”

Simmons sighed, twisting a loose curl around her finger. “Just because that kiss in the briefing impressed Skye doesn’t mean that it’s going to work on anyone who thinks we’re supposed to be married. As a participant, I can’t say for sure, but I would be willing to guess that it looked like a first kiss, even if it technically wasn’t one.”

Fitz narrowed his eyes, channeling his nerves into indignation. “Are you saying that my surprise kissing skills aren’t up to par?” 

“Oh, _Fitz!_ This isn’t a joke! If we don’t convince these people that we are who we say, they will kill us.”

The silence swallowed them whole, and Fitz nodded, her words knocking into his head for the first time in two weeks exactly how dangerous this was going to be. This was no jaunt into Ossetia, or simply escaping Hydra’s henchmen – they would be on their own in grave peril for an indefinite number of months, far away from any back-up, and failing to meet their superiors’ expectations wouldn’t be an option that they could survive.

He licked his lips and exhaled. “I... know. Sorry.”

Tucking the lock of hair with which she’d been toying behind her ear, she quirked her lips up at the corner, acknowledging his apology but also not letting him off the hook.

“Alright then,” she said, voice falsely brisk. “What are you doing now?” 

“Sketching new designs for the stun staff – the mechanism is too unwieldy, and I really think it would benefit from a remote trigger or...” He trailed off when her eyebrow arced upwards. “You meant.... Now. You want to practice now.”

“Now is as good a time as any, and – oh, honestly, Fitz, before I lose my nerve. It’s going to be awkward as arse to start off.” She giggled in a very uncharacteristically-Simmons way, self-conscious as he hadn’t seen her since they were back at the Academy, and even then it was a rarity.

Fitz wiped his suddenly-sweaty palms against his jeans and glanced out the glass doors of the lab at the end of the room. “Here?”

Simmons gave him a small shrug. “I don’t think anyone with the clearance for our lab would be surprised, they’re all helping with mission preparations. I suspect that May is this close to ordering it as part of our training, anyway. We will have simply gotten to it first.”

Suddenly aware of her relative nearness, Fitz folded his arms. “How do you want to...”

“I thought it might be best to just, well, go for it, I suppose.” Raising her eyebrow again at his defensive posture, she smiled, and pulled his hands down to rest on her waist. When he tried not to put any weight on her, she clicked her tongue. “I’m not going to break, Fitz.”

“Yeah, I know that,” he shot back automatically, but rested his hands more firmly against her nonetheless. After a deep breath, he leaned down as she leaned up and their lips bumped inelegantly against each other, forcing teeth into skin and causing them both to give voice to their pent-up, nervous laughter. 

Fitz leaned his forehead against Simmons’ temple, waiting for the giggles to subside. “Skye would have a _field_ day if she’d seen that.” 

Simmons grinned over her laughter, turning to retort but halting when she saw that he was millimeters away from her. Their mouths met, then, both of them sure that they’d been the one to take the plunge. Unlike the kiss at the briefing, this one had a certain ebb and flow, lips meeting, sliding against each other and pulling away, becoming the barest of brushes before sinking into tongues and heat and gasps. _Practice_ , Fitz told himself, slipping his hand up to cradle the back of her neck. _This is just practice_. And it was the best damn practice of his life, his entire body tingling as Simmons ran her tongue over his bottom lip before withdrawing it from him, shifting down to glide her lips against his jaw.

He had no idea how long they stood there, arms wrapped around each other, hands moving gently as they shifted one way or another, the kissing always reaching a near-desperate speed before one of them would break away and bring it back down to feather-kisses and gentle sighs. Simmons reached both her arms up around his neck, crossing her wrists behind his head and pressing up against him, whimpering as he skimmed his tongue over hers, and that – _that_ is when Fitz realized that he was painfully hard in his jeans, and his best friend had just pressed the entire length of her body against him.

Fitz let out a choked gasp and yanked himself away from her, banging sharply against a nearby lab table. Simmons yelped in surprise and used the table behind her to steady herself, staring at him. “What the hell, Fitz?”

As a part of him grinned at her having picked up his phrasing, the rest of his thoughts narrowed to the shocking redness of her mouth, skin bright and alluring after prolonged attention, and then shifted to the way he’d accidentally mussed her hair, normally-sedate waves now wild – as they might look after she had been in bed. He made a strangled sort of cough and shook that alarming train of thought from his head, inhaling and leaning over slightly to cover the reason for his embarrassment. 

“I – sorry, sorry, Jemma, I swore I heard someone come into the lab.” Fitz smiled weakly, searching for any sign that she had felt the real reason he’d broken away.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, glancing at the entrance. “I didn’t hear anything.” 

“Yeah, no, sorry, wasn’t anything after all.” He desperately tried not to notice the way her chest moved as she breathed heavily, forcing himself to focus on her smile as she turned back around.

“That’s probably enough practice for one afternoon. How did that feel to you?”

“What?”

Simmons had her hands folded in front of her, and, aside from the very obvious blush in her cheeks and flushed lips, had the same expression she wore when discussing the results of any mundane experiment. “Did that feel natural to you? Was there something that we should adjust for the next practice session?”

Fitz couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and after a moment she joined in, neither of them needing to acknowledge exactly how ridiculous this sounded.

“Yeah, that felt alright to me. I think we can keep going with... that. For the next time.” Her shoulders relaxed as she nodded, and he wondered if it was because she could possibly have been nervous about his reaction. As if there had ever been any chance he wouldn’t enjoy kissing Simmons.

With that thought, Fitz froze, his well of anger and frustration with his own feelings surfacing abruptly. He cleared his throat and self-consciously fixed his clothes as he stepped towards the doors. Simmons saw this, her hands going straight to her hair, and winced as she tried to tame it.

“I’m, uh... I forgot something in my bunk. I’m gonna go grab it,” he squeezed out, needing to be away from Simmons before he took his annoyance out on her.

Before he could reach the door, though, Simmons called out “Fitz!” and hurried over to him, stopping abruptly a few feet away, hands tangling anxiously together in front of her. “I don’t want this to be awkward between us.” Her gaze on his face was suddenly deeply reminiscent of her in their Academy days during finals weeks, both eager and worried, unsure – for what must be the first time in years – of how he would react. “It’s a part of our jobs, now, so if we just – keep communicating, working together, we can keep that from happening. Right?”

The cringe was almost tangible and something in Fitz’s chest clenched at the way her wide, captivating eyes looked up at him, seeking an approval for which she never truly had to ask. “Course we can,” he answered, grinning down at her. “We’ll always be alright, you and me.”

“You and I,” she corrected instinctively, smiling at his eye-roll. “See you later, then.”

Fitz nodded back at her before opening the glass-and-steel door, trying not think about what he hadn’t been telling her for months.

 

\------

 

 _Eighty-Sixth Day_ (Part 2)

Jemma paced furiously back and forth at the end of their bed, hands gripping her neck hard enough that Fitz was worried she’d leave nail marks. For his part, his mind had gone completely blank, convinced that any second now Nate would burst into their miniscule apartment and shoot them where they stood. Or, in Jemma’s case, paced. Fitz reached behind him to touch the grip of his pistol, although this didn’t reassure him as much as he’d have liked.

“We’re so stupid,” she muttered. “Of _course_ they gave us the apartment next to the rec room –”

“To keep an eye on us,” he finished for her, a small vein of nausea at their naiveté slithering into his stomach. She shook her head and continued to move as she thought, shoes scraping roughly against the apartment’s horrendous carpet on every turn.

“We don’t have another choice.” Jemma finally stopped pacing, hands now at her sides in something akin to either determination or apology. “We’ve got to have sex.”

“What?!” Fitz’s voice was barely recognizable as his own, it had raised so many octaves. Jemma cringed and dragged him by his shirt collar in to the fridge-sized bathroom, presumably to avoid being overheard as much as possible; he was so nonplussed that he let her, dropping right onto the closed toilet. As she pulled the door to behind her, Fitz managed to get his tongue working. “There has to be another way.” 

“Did you see them, Fitz?” She hissed, crossing her arms to create distance despite the fact that their knees were touching in the cramped space. “They’d moved their hands to their guns – Andrew even unsnapped his holster. I’m fairly certain that if I hadn’t come up with that bondage nonsense we’d be dead right now.”

Fitz ruefully scratched the back of his head; he’d been completely off form tonight – he hadn’t noticed that at all – and it was both unprofessional and unacceptable. “Good thing they bought that. Never knew that... _that_ was even a thing.”

Jemma sniffed, hiding a smile. “You’re such an innocent.” 

“I am bloody not –” 

“Not the time, Fitz.” 

“Right, yeah.” He took a few slow breaths, frantically trying to think of alternatives. “Couldn’t we just fake it, though? I mean, it’d be awkward as arse for us, but...”

Jemma sighed. “Fitz, think about it for a moment. Can you ever imagine either of us being able to fake the sounds of having sex _convincingly_? For any length of time?”

Fitz tried not to let the seeds of panic catch hold in his chest. A part of him – a very annoying, predictable part – was thrilled, but the rational part of him was absolutely dreading agreeing to this. He didn’t know what it would do to him to be with Jemma in that way and then have to let her go again a few months down the road, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be good. 

“Won’t it seems suspicious if we have loud sex right on the other side of the wall from where we know they’re playing poker? And right after they’ve just asked us about our sex life?” Fitz was grasping at straws, but at this point he’d take any amount of extra time that he could.

She turned her head towards the door, listening to the sounds of booming laughter and chatter coming from the rec room. “You’re right. We’ll give it an hour.”

Fitz snorted. “Only you would schedule sex.”

Grinning in spite of herself, Jemma slapped his shoulder and leaned back against the sink. “So you agree, then. This is the best course of action.” 

He dropped his gaze from hers, letting the silence between them stretch, shakily, until it filled the whole room, and then sighed. “I don’t really know anything right now, Jemma.” Fitz caught her eye and gave a firm nod. “But I trust your judgment. We have to maintain our cover.” 

Jemma exhaled, clearly trying to settle her own nerves. “Good. We should talk about it first, then. The last time I had sex was –”

Groaning, Fitz leaned back and rubbed his forehead. “Oh, great." 

“– Back at Sci-Ops, so almost two years ago. You’ll need to take that into account, when...” She trailed off, hunting for the right phrase, but Fitz nodded quickly – he knew what she meant – and swallowed.

It had been longer than that for him, embarrassingly; he’d known that Jemma had hooked up with an old boyfriend at some point during their last few months at Sci-Ops, but neither of them had had time for real relationships during their final year. And neither of his exes had ever shown any renewed interest after one or the other of them had ended it. He instinctively shook his head as he thought, staring down at the mangy bathroom tiles and knowing none of that was the real reason his pulse was beating loudly in his ears.

“What?” 

“No, nothing...”

“Fitz,” Jemma said in that tone that usually meant he was about to get scolded, and then waited for him to meet her gaze. “We’ve had to be honest and clear with each other about everything for this mission. Tonight _has_ to be the same – maybe even more importantly.” 

“I just...” Fitz faltered, trying to parse through the jumble of his brain to find the right words, halting as he felt a twinge of guilt over the fact that he knew he _wasn’t_ being completely honest with her. That he couldn’t be. Suddenly, he missed his robotics and mechanics, missed almost always knowing exactly how to slot things together so they worked and thrived. Words had never come to him as easily. “I never thought we’d be here, you and me. About to do...” He trailed off. 

It was mostly true, what he said. Having any kind of physical relationship with Jemma had been almost entirely foreign to him for most of their friendship; it was the “never” part that stretched the truth a little bit. In the last few months of their time on the Bus, he’d started having dreams about Jemma, the kind of dreams that made him flush at their memory, until he’d eventually realized that his subconscious had acknowledged his burgeoning feelings for her long before he had.

Jemma sighed, arms tightening around herself. “I’m sorry the concept is so unappealing to you, Fitz, but I can’t see –”

“That’s not it,” he interrupted sharply. “You’re my best friend, you know that – how many times did people at the Academy ask if we were ‘together’ or ‘friends-with-benefits’ and we _both_ said no? Vehemently?” She nodded, slowly. “You’re gorgeous, Jemma, I know you know that – and you’re my best friend. I have no doubt that we – that it will – but it’s not what I’d have thought. That’s what I meant. Alright?”

After seemingly searching his eyes for any sign of falsehood, Jemma took his hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “Yes, right. I’m sorry, it’s just – nerves.”

Fitz smiled up at her. “Me too.”

 

\------

 

 _Seventy-Third Day_ (Part 1)

Something had gone terribly wrong – the police had arrived, tear gas was thrown, and everyone had scattered. Fitz was hiding behind a large, wooden crate stamped FRAGILE, coughing as chemical-induced tears streamed down his face. His heart was pounding, but not because of the gas or the fact that he didn’t know where Ethan or Nate had gone – he had no idea where Jemma had ended up in all the chaos and his mind was racing through all the possible places she could be. The image of her crushed, limp body in the center of the warehouse flashed into his head, and Fitz couldn’t stop the whimper from escaping his throat.

“ _JEMMA!_ ” He tried to call out, but his voice was burning from the chemicals and he doubted that anyone could hear him. In the silence his scuffled footsteps sounded horrific, like bodies being dragged over concrete, and he kept calling for her, wiping at his eyes with his chemical-tainted sleeves, desperate to be able to see anything at all.

After struggling to get from one room within the warehouse to another, he froze as he saw a group of three people, two holding large machine guns, only belatedly realizing that the third looked exactly like a blurry version of Jemma.

She sprinted straight into his arms, just as she had so many times before, but every time the jolt of relief felt new. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and she whispered into his ear, desperation tingeing her voice. “Oh thank God, you’re okay, you’re okay...” 

“I’m fine,” he murmured back, angling away so he could see her face. Her cheeks were wet, red, and blotchy, and he smoothed his hand over her skin, ignoring the stinging in his own eyes. “They got you, too. With the tear gas.” 

Jemma blinked up at him. “Oh, no, I –” Her voice broke, giving way to a quick snivel. “One of the younger guys – he’s about your height, and was wearing a leather jacket – he was shot in the attack, right in the head. I saw it, and I thought – you –” She collapsed into Fitz’s shoulder, sobbing, and all he could do was squeeze his arms around her as tightly as possible.

“She was a real little bitch about it, too,” Nate snarled from their left, machine gun held upright and eyes searching the perimeter. “Ran right out to a dead body in the middle of the fuckin’ firefight. Lucky as shit she didn’t get shot.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Georgie slunk around one of the towers of wooden crates, glowering.

Fitz shot Nate a glare and returned his attention to Jemma, whose grip on his jacket had only tightened. “Hey, Jem, look at me,” he murmured, bending his knees to force her gaze upwards. When she finally did, she’d stopped actively sobbing, leaving just a few errant tears to run down her cheeks, eyes bright even in the dim, shadowy light. Unable to help himself, Fitz smiled, exhaling, trying to hide the tremors in his own hands. “I’m here, I’m alright.” He breathed in deeply, gesturing for Jemma to repeat the action.

“Christ, I dunno what Charlie was thinking hiring these two.” Nate’s voice carried across the empty room, and Fitz clenched his jaw, pulling Jemma back into his arms as she tried to catch her breath. “Coupla dime-store robbers shouldn’t be doing this shit.”

“If it wasn’t for this _dime store robber_ , you’d be dead twice over,” Fitz snapped, having lost his patience.

“He’s also conveniently forgettin’ to say that Jemma managed to slip one of those sleep-grenade things ‘neath one of the police trucks. Weren’t for her, we’d all be dead.” Georgie may be crass and altogether too much like her father, but Fitz suddenly felt very glad for her indeed.

“Well done, Jem,” he said, rubbing her shoulders and noting how the shaking had subsided, reduced to the average rise-and-fall of her breath. “Now, c’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Jemma stepped away, rubbing her eyes dry, and inhaled as she took a glance around the room. “You’re going the wrong way, Nate,” she called, words clipped. “Which you’d know if you’d paid attention when Ethan cased the compound.” As they waited for Nate to return, she slipped her hand into Fitz’s and studied his eyes. “I can fix that,” she whispered under the noise of the gangster’s stomping boots, reaching up to gently touch the inflamed skin underneath Fitz’s eyes. “When we get home.” 

He grabbed her hand, then, and squeezed as he inhaled deeply, trying to convince his panic to dissipate. She had found him, and she was alive, and he had no reason to be afraid for her anymore. For tonight, at least. 

“Where the fuck are we going?” 

Georgie stared daggers at her father’s right-hand man, but Fitz knew that this was as far as she’d go in opposing him tonight. People didn’t mess with Nate when he was holding an AK-47.

Jemma broke her gaze with Fitz and slid her hand into his before striding in the opposite direction that Nate had wandered. “Here. And be quieter, or they’ll know we’ve gotten away.”

As she strode in front, leading them to an escape route, Fitz was briefly distracted by the thought that this Jemma was very different than the one who had left the Playground with him two and a half months ago. The always-confident but quiet biochemist was now ordering about hardened criminals – and a particularly murderous one at that – and he hoped that she was as pleased with herself as he was. Being in deep cover could be a dangerous, easy place to lose oneself, Fitz knew, but as far as he could tell Jemma was simply thriving within it, becoming even stronger than she’d always been.


	4. We Can Light It Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?” Fitz pulled Jemma to a stop and turned her to face him. When she kept her eyes down, he put two fingers under her chin and lifted her head to look at him. “Did you lose him?”
> 
> “No,” she whispered, voice cutting and firm despite the tears. “He lived. He’ll be just fine in a few days, and that’s the problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to astrotimbre for helping with the science lingo in this chapter!

_Two Days Before the Mission_

 

Unusually for him, Trip let Fitz out of their final individual training session early (tomorrow would be all joint training), so Fitz had returned to the lab before Simmons, eager to finish some last minute design tweaking before they had to leave. The Playground did have other scientists, now – it had taken SHIELD time to find them, as many had gone into hiding after Hydra’s unveiling – but he didn’t like the idea of them doing much with his designs once he’d left. This was his last chance to finish up before he had to turn over his work for lord-only-knows how long.

Naturally, this was precisely when Skye came bounding into the lab, holding something behind her back. “Fitz! How’d the training sesh go?”

He gave her a suspicious smile, eyeing her hidden hands. “Fine. Got two percent closer to passing the chair test on easy mode, so Trip thinks I’m as ready as I can be.”

She nodded, leaning back against the steel table opposite him. “I’ve officially finished scrubbing their old identities, by the way. Anything ever attributed to the Married Marksmen now has your and Simmons’ faces attached.”

“Fantastic.” A miniscule screw fell out of the base he was assembling and he frowned, grabbing for his toolmag.

“I know you’re busy, but I have something really important for you.” Whenever Skye bit her lip in amusement, Fitz knew that he was about to be tortured in some way that was usually completely unpredictable.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, keeping an eye on her as he continued to assemble the newly-molded parts.

“Okay, first of all, I’m still super disappointed that you’re not growing your hair out Point Break-era Swayze style for going undercover –”

“For God’s sake...” 

“BUT – I’ve finally got the  _perfect_  costume piece for you.” She couldn’t stop herself from bouncing on her feet, the purpose of the cloth object held behind her back becoming abundantly clear.

He shook his head, reaching for the next module to assemble. “I don’t need a costume, Skye.”

“Yeah, you really do. You need it to get into character as  _Scott Fitzgerald_  – which is the most ridiculous undercover name I’ve ever heard, by the way, I can’t believe Coulson signed off on it. I mean, I know you guys needed something with a name you’re used to so that was one thing you didn’t need to worry about, and it’s not like it was hard for me to work that into your identity trail, but,  _really_?”

Sometimes Fitz wondered how Skye managed not to pass out when she spoke that fast, but he just shrugged. “He’s my mum’s favorite author.” 

“Isn’t your mom Scottish?”

He quirked an eyebrow in her general direction. “What ever gave you that idea?”

She rolled her eyes, leaning forward on one elbow and staying carefully away from his work. “I just  _meant_  that it’s a little surprising your mom’s favorite author is American.”

“She’s a bit of an America groupie, really. Not that I’m complaining. Always liked it here....” He trailed off, the secondary ‘ _until a death-worshipping Nazi cult popped out of the ground like daisies_ ’ part of the sentence remaining unspoken.

“Okay, lightning round – favorite American show of all time?” 

“MacGuyver.” Skye burst into giggles and he frowned, reminded of the conversation between him and Simmons when he’d last made her watch one of his favorite episodes. “I mean, yeah, they never actually got any of the technical stuff right, but –”

“No, honestly, that’s the best answer you could possibly have given me. I can just picture tiny Fitz trying to duct tape scissors and copper wiring together to make an exploding crossbow or something.”

Wincing, he paused in the middle of reaching for his design notebook. “I – how would duct taping scissors and copper – y’know, never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

“And, speaking of costumes, MacGuyver always had his badass mullet, right?”

The lip-biting grin was back, and Fitz knew that his delay tactics were just about used up. “First of all, I cannot believe you just described anyone’s mullet as badass. Second of all, there’s no way in hell that I’m growing a mullet.”

Skye groaned, pushing away from the table in amused exasperation. “No, just, shut up. Look what I found!” Finally, she pulled the bundle from behind her back to reveal a black leather jacket that seemed, surprisingly enough, to actually be about Fitz’s size. “They have some sweet period gear stashed away in the Playground’s archives and Koenig said you could have it. It’s not a magical SHIELD jacket with, like, GPS sleeves, or whatever, but I thought it’d be perfect for you.” She pushed it eagerly towards him and he grabbed it, genuinely surprised that he didn’t find it repulsive.

The edges of the leather were slightly worn but most of it was spotless, as if the original owner had worn it frequently but cared for it in the same way Coulson did for Lola. Before he had really decided what to do with the thing, he found himself sliding his arms into the sleeves, pulling the collar in as the hems settled against his shoulder blades. When he looked up, someone who was almost a stranger stared back at him from the window wall’s reflection. His other clothes were too crisp, and he’d start growing out his stubble tomorrow, but Fitz actually believed for half a second that he was “Fitz” Scott Fitzgerald, adrenaline junkie and criminal jack-of-all-trades.

Stepping up behind him and yanking the back hem further down in an almost-alarmingly motherly fashion, Skye made an excited  _oooh_ -ing noise. “It fits you perfectly! I really am just  _that_  good.”

Fitz chuckled, smoothing down the front of the jacket as he zipped it halfway up. “Alright, alright, Miss Braggy-Pants.” Unfazed, she shifted around in front of him to admire her find, crossing her arms with pride. “Thanks, Skye,” Fitz said, his voice quiet. It suddenly hit him that he didn’t know when he was going to see her again, and she really was one of his favorite people after Simmons, despite her lack of general training or interest in genuine scientific methods or decorum. “This is... really...” 

“No problem,” she interrupted, her grin faltering slightly. “You just bring it back in one piece, okay? I’m not sure Koenig realized you’d be taking it off-base when he let me have it.”

They both laughed and Fitz did a small pivot so he could see what it looked like from the side. The lab door swished open and a small “oh!” squeaked from the entrance. Fitz turned to see Simmons standing in the doorway, completely frozen as she stared somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. 

“Simmons! I found a jacket for Fitz, doesn’t he look great?” Skye waved two hands towards Fitz as if she was Vanna White, but Simmons didn’t even glance at her.

A few awkward moments passed, and then Simmons swallowed, giving them a tight smile. “Yes, that will do nicely for your cover. Well done, Skye.” She scooted quickly over to her workstation, hiding her face behind her hair. Frowning, Fitz briefly watched his best friend focus overly intently on her work, wondering if something at her last individual training session had bothered her.

Still standing next to Fitz, Skye grinned widely and muttered to herself: “Now that’s  _exactly_  what I was looking for.” 

He gave her a bemused look. “What?”

“Nothing!” The amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes meant that it definitely wasn’t nothing, and that she was enjoying some private joke with herself. That had been happening a lot with her lately, but Fitz had been too busy to bother trying to figure it out. She moseyed backwards towards the door, clapping her hands together in feigned nonchalance. “I’ll, uh, see you guys later. I’m late for a meeting with AC.” Simmons gave her a quick nod goodbye, and before Skye exited the lab, doors swooshing open behind her, she gave Fitz an exuberant two-thumbs-up.

Once she’d gone, Fitz shook his head, chuckling to himself. “She may be really odd, but this is actually a very nice present.”

Simmons hummed her agreement, still not turning to look at him. “How is the final redesign coming on the stealth stunners, Fitz?”

“Really well, your fix worked perfectly in the simulation. So thanks for that, I’d still be stuck on miniaturizing the acoustic locator if it wasn’t for you.” 

“It was simple, really, because without finding an adjustable way to take the resonance of the room into account when the discs are set up, the beam might not–”

“–Reach sufficient density and pressure to create the isothermal shock, yeah. Works like a beauty now.” She glanced up at him for the first time since entering the room, her eyes staying resolutely fixed on his face as she smiled. Fitz tilted his head at her stiffness, but continued anyway. “I might even be able to run a test tonight once I finish assembling it, if you want to join...”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “We should be able to reserve the range for ourselves, with only two – days left.” Her voice hesitated at listing the day count, but Fitz just nodded, trying not to think about how little time they had before departure.

“Yeah, and I really don’t fancy leaving all of the testing to the others.” He pulled a face, stretching out the arms of the jacket. “I just hope they don’t muck it up too much. No telling what they’ll decide to change without us here.” 

Simmons sighed in complete agreement, and they continued discussing his stunners, as well as the tests of her healing gel she’d recently completed, while they continued about their work. Deciding that he needed to break his new accouterment in, Fitz left the jacket on, adjusting to the way it made him hold his shoulders differently. As the afternoon passed, he got the distinct impression that Simmons kept sneaking glances at him, but she turned her head away every time he looked up. Rather than ask, though, he bit his tongue, and hoped that whatever was bothering her would dissipate before they left for Atlanta.

 

\------

 

 _Seventy-Third Day_ (Part 2)

 

Forty-year-old carpet shouldn’t make this much noise, Fitz was sure of it, becoming increasingly frustrated with the squeaky-shuffle his boots made as he paced along the hallway. It was quiet here, at least, in the back hall of the Boarding House; all the others were either in the front lobby or up in the rec room, cleaning up after their disastrous attempt to raid the warehouse. Once they’d managed to reunite with Ethan’s group and escape, they’d learned that a number of people were injured, and, at Charlie’s orders, returned to the Boarding House so that Jemma could treat them.

Early on in their time with the Wellers they’d let slip that Jemma’s “mother” was a nurse and that she’d picked up a lot growing up, figuring that a criminal organization would believe any kind of medical training to be beneficial – even if her skills were somewhat more advanced than that story would suggest. They were right, of course, but Jemma had been in a closed room with one of the more grievously injured criminals for almost two hours now and Fitz was starting to get antsy.

At long last, the door opened and Jemma exited the bedroom, hands clean but unnaturally pink and hair tied back as it hadn’t been in months. Fitz rushed up to her but stalled, studying her face, unsure of what he wanted to say. She stared at his shoulder, not meeting his eyes.

“Can we walk back to the motel?”

He blinked but nodded. “Yeah, okay. We’ll pick up the car tomorrow.”

Without saying anything more, Jemma brushed past him in the direction of the back exit. Fitz paused for a moment, glancing at the room she’d just left, wondering what he’d find inside. 

“Fitz,” she called from the end of the hallway, and he turned away from the door, jogging to meet her.

“Sorry, yeah, let’s go.”

Jemma stood in the doorframe, waiting for him with her hand outstretched as he rounded the corner. Fitz glanced down, still almost surprised by her initiation of this kind of physical contact, but took her hand anyway, giving it a gentle squeeze as she preceded him out the two doors and into the cool, pre-dawn darkness. Their newest motel – they had to switch every few weeks to avoid detection by the police – wasn’t especially far away, and moving as briskly as Jemma was it likely wouldn’t take them long to get there. Normally, walking through the streets of Atlanta at this time of day wasn’t something to which Fitz would agree, but considering the fact that they both had pistols and he had at least one more dendrotoxin grenade in his jacket pocket, he thought that they would be safe enough. 

After a few blocks, he turned to glance at Jemma and realized that tears were streaming silently down her face. 

“Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?” Fitz pulled her to a stop and turned her to face him. When she kept her eyes down, he put two fingers under her chin and lifted her head to look at him. “Did you lose him?”

“No,” she whispered, voice cutting and firm despite the tears. “He lived. He’ll be just fine in a few days, and that’s the problem.”

“Okay, you’re gonna have to explain what you’re thinking, Jemma. C’mon, it’s me.” He tried smiling, although his obvious worry doubtless undermined that. 

She dropped her eyes from his face and swiped at the tears with her thumb. “The man I just saved was Andrew Collins.”

Fitz exhaled slowly, beginning to understand what was upsetting her. Andrew was Charlie’s bodyguard, of sorts, had a rather extensive file of murder and mayhem that they’d both memorized as part of their pre-mission prep, and hadn’t been any more pleasant to meet in person.

“Do you remember from his file that he killed two nine-year-olds once?” Her voice was shaking, anger seeping in. “The man whose life I just saved once _murdered_ two children. And now he'll live for who knows how long, to kill who knows how many other innocent people.”

Scratching the back of his neck, Fitz shook his head, completely stumped for what to say. “At least he wasn’t a pedophile...”

“And that makes it better, does it?” Jemma snapped, backing away.

“That’s not what I–” 

“He only committed all of these _other_ horrendous crimes, so the fact that I just _saved his life_ isn’t as damning as it _could_ be?!” She clutched her hands to her face, jerking herself away from Fitz’s grasp and collapsing over at her waist, and let out a muffled yell. After a moment, she lowered her hands, taking a tremulous deep breath. “This is why I never wanted to be a doctor, Fitz. They have to treat everyone exactly the same, and I just – I don’t know how to do that. Maybe that makes me a bad person, I don’t know...” 

“Hey, no, look at me.” Fitz grabbed her shoulders before she could shift herself away from him again, trying to catch her eye. “You’re not a bad person, Jemma. You’re practically the antithesis of a bad person.”

She let out a shuddering laugh and met his gaze, the hollowness behind her eyes frightening him more than he could express. “I’m not perfect, Fitz. You should have learned that by now.”

“Being imperfect isn’t the same as being bad.” He spoke softly, trying to express the truth in a way that would bring her out of that doubt-filled hole. “And you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. Even if you do knick my favorite jumpers.” His joke surprised a laugh out of her, and he grinned.

“That’s the worst thing you could think of? That I borrow your jumpers?”

“Steal. And yeah, pretty much.” Fitz let go of her shoulders, relieved that this time she didn’t immediately turn away from him again. “D’you know how many times I’ve wandered into my bunk, all ready to warm up with the perfect jumper, only to realize that it’s missing?”

“It’s not my fault you always left your room unlocked.”

“Jumper thief.”

“Thief of more than that, now,” she whispered, amusement abruptly absent from her face.

“D’you remember what you told me after the... the beating?” Jemma frowned at the wince that crossed his face, and nodded. “You were doing what you had to, to protect us, to protect your cover. Right?”

She exhaled. “Right. That was Jemma Harker.” 

“Exactly.” He smiled slightly, trying to appear encouraging and not still jangled by her outburst. In all the time that they’d been undercover, Jemma had been the strong one between them, and Fitz wouldn’t have predicted how unnerving it was to see her so angry with herself. “He’ll get what’s coming to him one day.”

“Yes. We can hope.” Sliding one hand back into his, Jemma exhaled, tugging him forward in the direction of their motel.

“Everything gets easier with practice,” Fitz said, repeating something Trip had told him during one of their training sessions. So far, he’d been right.

“Everything...” she murmured, letting the word fade into the darkness. Fitz wondered what she was thinking about when she said that; his mind trailed off to the rec room, back to blood and skin and sickening adrenaline. 

“Oh! I do have some good news – when I was waiting for you, Ethan told me that there’s gonna be room for us at the Boarding House, if we wanted a break from changing motels every week.”

Jemma stopped short and stared at him. “They’re inviting us in.”

Fitz grinned. “Yeah. Apparently Charlie was impressed by Georgie’s account of what happened at the warehouse.”

She grabbed onto his shoulders, almost smiling but her eyes distant as she calculated what this meant for their covers and the mission plan. “We’re going to be living in the Wellers’ inner sanctum.” After a moment, she leapt forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

“Yeah,” Fitz squeezed out, “it’s what we’ve been waiting for.” Jemma continued to hold him and he gave in to the instinct to close his eyes, breathing in the smell of lavender that was so very her, exorcising himself of the terror he’d felt earlier that night when he couldn’t find her. Their mission was moving forward successfully, and she was here with him – all in all, today had been a good day.

 

\------

 

_One Hundred-Ninth Day_

 

Another night in the rec room, and another game of poker, although this time Fitz was holding the cards while Jemma sat next to him and drew instructions on his thigh. She was technically sitting in another chair, but her legs were draped over his lap and he would swear that he could feel the blood thrumming underneath his skin. It had been thirty-three hours since they’d last been alone together, not that he’d been counting, and he was this close to just picking her up and taking her straight to their bed. How he’d managed to survive so many years without having permission to hold, touch, _want_ Jemma was completely beyond him at this point – and he couldn’t even remember anymore why that hadn’t interested him for most of their friendship. How on earth had younger-him ever managed to spend more than five minutes in their lab without wanting to tear all her clothes off?

But they were trying to work a new angle to get information from Charlie and couldn’t leave the rec room until they did, so Fitz just resigned himself to being in a frustrating state of acute arousal while her fingers glided up and down the inside of his jeans-clad thigh. As he returned his attention to his hand of cards, her finger swept over a particularly sensitive area and his leg jumped involuntarily, causing him to purse his lips. He slid his eyes over to Jemma, preparing to give her a silent scolding, but his mouth went dry at the coy grin playing around her mouth. Jemma’s tongue peeked out from between her lips, leaving them moist and pink in its wake, and Fitz didn’t even realize that he was leaning towards her when she murmured, “Your turn, darling.” She met his eyes, daring him to call her out on the teasing game he now _knew_ she was playing, and he huffed as he turned back to his cards. Fitz vowed that they would have words later – although most of those words would probably involve each other’s names and a lot of moaning.

“That was some damn amazing work you did today, son,” Charlie said to Fitz around the cigarette bobbing between his chapped lips. “Wouldn’t’ve ever figured out how to fix that thing without you.”

“Lucky I’d seen something like it before, back in Greenwich,” Fitz tossed off, following Jemma’s order to discard his three of diamonds.

That afternoon had been an interesting one – early on during their time working with the Wellers, Fitz had revealed a certain “knack” for machinery that Charlie had sought to utilize. Usually, it was doing tasks that Fitz had known how to do before he even arrived at the Academy, like fixing outdated comm equipment, or sometimes there was the occasional goody, like a handful of faulty dendrotoxin grenades. (The hardest part about those jobs for Fitz was remembering that his _Fitzgerald_ was just a criminal who happened to have a knack for machines, and so he had to make it look like it was actually difficult, stretching out his work time while he mentally listed all the different ways he could repurpose the parts into something else entirely.)

Recently, however, Ethan had started calling Fitz to take a look at more sensitive items that were almost certainly procured through Hydra. It started with a nano-explosive here, an orphaned Centipede delivery system there, but today’s box of problems was something else entirely: A broken Mouse Hole and a whole platen of small, concealable weapons designed to be incorporated into super soldier armor. Fitz spent a couple hours pretending to fiddle with the Mouse Hole, which was an easy fix, and then the rest of the afternoon subtly disabling the weapons with Jemma’s help. Since no one else had any kind of weapons expertise except for ordinary guns and they already thought the shipment was a dud, no one was the wiser, but he and Jemma decided that they needed to do _something_ to try to speed up their investigation. A shipment of weapons like that suggested that someone higher up was trying to demonstrate “good faith” to the Wellers, and that worried them. Why might someone involved with Hydra want to ingratiate themselves to Charlie?

“It’s too bad you couldn’t do anything with the rest.” Charlie tapped out the stub of his cigarette and discarded two cards. 

“Where _did_ you get those things?” Jemma yawned, feigning disinterest as she slid her hand down the back of Fitz’s leather jacket, fingers coming to rest along the top of his jeans, brushing lightly against his skin. Her hand was warmer than usual and Fitz shivered, mentally cursing her uncanny ability to turn him on at absolutely the worst times.

A few of the other poker players made vague noises of incredulity, but Charlie just smiled, tapping his cards against the table. “Oh, ya know. They were a gift.”

“That’s horseshite,” Jemma replied, matter-of-fact, picking up Fitz’s cards and putting them face-down on the table in the classic “fold” position. She had the attention of the whole table now, and Charlie stared at her, the smile lingering around his mouth looking increasingly forced. Fitz glanced sideways at her; she seemed in control, but this wasn’t what they’d discussed in the car. 

“Without my Fitz that whole shipment would have been garbage, and you won’t even let us in on the source? You like saying this is a family business, Charlie, but doesn’t seem especially familial to me.” Jemma crossed her arms, having worked herself up into a surprisingly convincing snit. “And, to be honest, I’m really bloody bored sitting around Atlanta. I cannot remember the last time Fitz and I were included on a job, a real job, an exciting one, and I’m tired of patching up cuts and bruises. I’m not actually a fucking nurse, you know. I ran away with Fitz so that I _wouldn’t_ be like my mother.” After a theatrical huff, she turned to Fitz, who brushed aside a strand of her hair. “Maybe we should just go to Miami, darling. I don’t think we’re getting anything from staying here.”

Fitz ghosted his lips against hers, taking a moment to smile. “I’m ready to leave if you are, babe.” 

Across the table, Andrew guffawed, and the group’s attention shifted to him. A short man whose general appearance somehow reminded Fitz of his mother’s meatloaf, he was now giving the two of them a disgusted glare over the top of his cards. “What kinda pussy lets a bitch boss him ‘round like that?” Apparently, the fact that Jemma had once saved his life didn’t change his opinion about her. 

Fitz stood abruptly, dumping Jemma’s legs off his lap and leaning aggressively over the table. “What did you just call her?” 

Before Andrew could open his mouth, Charlie raised his hands. “Settle down, boys.”

In the silence, Jemma reached for Fitz’s arm but he shook her off, pointing a steady hand at Andrew. “You apologize right now. My wife is at least ten times smarter than everyone else in this building, combined, and worth more to me than every one of you bastards put together. So you better. Fucking. Apologize.” Andrew clambered to his feet, rising to the same height as Fitz with biceps bigger than most skulls, but turned his head sharply when Charlie laughed.

The crime boss pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it with a petite, silver lighter, twisting it in his fingers as he took a quick drag. “You heard the man, Andrew. No cause to be rude to Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“Harker,” Jemma interjected from Fitz’s side, and he flashed her a quick look of incredulity before turning back to Andrew, whose face was flushing a blotchy purple.

“Okay, whatever, sorry man.” 

“I am not a man, Mr. Collins.” She met his gaze unflinchingly, and somewhere behind them Georgie let out a quiet whoop. Fitz wanted nothing more than to kiss Jemma right then, but settled for wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her to his side. 

“No shit you’re not,” Andrew muttered, and Charlie sighed. 

“Take a walk, Andrew.”

The bodyguard stared blankly at his boss. “What?”

“Take a walk.” Then Charlie picked up his cards, and the other occupants of the table started breathing again. Andrew was left to look dumbly for support from the other players and, upon finding none, stormed out of the room, knocking over his cards and chair in the process.

Charlie plucked the cigarette from his mouth and called over the room’s renewed chatter. “Ethan, toss Fitz those keys we talked about earlier.” After the lanky, moderately inebriated man managed to find said keys, he threw them over, roughly straight at Fitz’s face. Luckily, Jemma was able to snatch them from the air before they could collide with his nose. They turned back to Charlie, who was smiling. “Can’t predict what jobs come up, but maybe this’ll make Atlanta seem more like home for a while. One of our rental properties is about to, ah, be available. Give ‘em two days to clean it out, and it’s yours. Free of charge.”

Jemma dropped the two identical keys into Fitz’s hand, and he stared at them pensively, disguising his satisfaction. As they’d suspected, his skillset – even one that was dumbed down from his normal abilities by a large percentage – was too valuable for Charlie to let them leave. Giving them a new apartment was not exactly the information for which they’d been hoping, but perhaps it was a step closer to being brought in on more sensitive discussions, preferably ones about things like that weapons delivery.

Fitz tossed the keys over to Charlie. “We’ll let you know tomorrow.” Just then, Jemma slid her hand below the back waist of Fitz’s jeans, skimming just over his arse, and he clenched his jaw. They really needed to have a talk about not breaking his concentration while he was in character. Charlie caught the keys and raised an eyebrow, but nodded, returning his attention to the game at hand.

Jemma stretched up on her toes so that her lips brushed the shell of Fitz’s ear, and whispered: “Bedtime, I think.” His skin tingled from her absence when she stepped away, towards the door, and he made to follow her.

Before they had moved far, however, Charlie called after them, studying his cards. “That shipment was a present from an old friend, a former investor.” He glanced up. “Never doubt the value of friendships with powerful people.”

Fitz nodded once and then followed Jemma out of the rec room, a shudder of a different kind running through him once they were in the hall. The idea of befriending a man like Charlie Weller, even as part of an undercover operation, was not something to take lightly. 

But then he happened to glance down at Jemma’s bare neck as she unlocked the door to their adjacent apartment, the muted orange of the low-watt bulbs in the hallway making her skin seem impossibly warm and alluring. Everything about tonight’s undercover work flew instantly out of Fitz’s head as he remembered her frustratingly wandering hands and the fact that they hadn’t been alone together in over a day. He watched her step through the door ahead of him, one shoulder bare and the rest of her far too clothed, and decided that now was exactly the right time to teach her not to torment him in public.

As soon as he secured the door, Fitz grabbed Jemma by the waist, spun her towards the wall, and pressed every centimeter of himself against her. Her gasp and the way she bit into her lower lip to keep from grinning drove him even further over the edge, and instead of the scolding he’d been planning in his head he laid a trail of hot, messy, open-mouthed kisses down her neck to the highest edge of her shirt. She whimpered when he nipped at her skin too sharply, and then she grasped his hips more tightly, and Fitz wondered if she’d always been like this, his Jemma, and he’d just never noticed, or if living undercover was allowing them both to become someone they’d always been afraid to be.

He reached up her shirt, the skin of her stomach almost radiating heat as he smoothed his fingers upwards, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When his hand reached her breast, he thrilled at realizing her nipple was already tight, her skin trembling as he thumbed the sensitive nub through the satin of her bra. Jemma moaned breathily at the contact, arching her back and pressing her breast more firmly against his fingers, so he pulled both his lips and hand away, thinking smugly about how turnabout’s fair play. That didn’t last for long, though, because when she blinked her eyes slowly open, mouth forming an unconscious pout, he couldn’t help but press soft, slow kisses to her lips, her jaw, and her temple, and her sigh made something in his chest clench. After a few more moments, he actually pulled away far enough to look down at her, smiling in spite of himself.

“You have been driving me absolutely bloody insane all night.” He nudged her nose with his in a faint eskimo kiss, finding that he couldn’t bear to really separate himself from her, not when she was so close and smirking up at him so tantalizingly.

“Oh?” Despite the breathiness in her voice, she still feigned disinterest, giving him a small, teasing shrug. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You had your hand down the back of my jeans.”

“I was cold.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

In return, Jemma lifted her chin, challenging him with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Thief.”

They paused, studying each other, at an impasse until Fitz nodded to himself. “Yeah, okay, I’ve decided what your punishment’s gonna be.” Without warning, he swept her legs up so he could carry her into the bedroom. “You’re going to have the longest, most mind-blowing orgasm you’ve ever had.” 

Jemma cracked up, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I really don’t think you’ve quite got the definition of ‘punishment’ right, Fitz.”

“Hmm,” he said, dropping her gently onto the bed’s edge. “You’ll have to show me sometime, then.” 

Her breath hitched at the look in his eyes, staring at him as if she’d forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. For a moment, he let himself enjoy the want written plainly on her face – he knew that it was just biology, but if he shut off the analytical part of his brain he could pretend it might be something more. Could hope that one day he wouldn’t be so paralyzed by love and desire and fear that he would just tell his best friend that he wanted this part of their undercover personas to stay the same, forever. Could imagine a world where she wanted the same.

As he started tugging off his clothes, though, he froze, realizing that if they moved apartments tomorrow or the day after then there would be no need for this part of the charade anymore – without an audience who needed to be convinced of their relationship, the sex would become extraneous. They would go back to sleeping on either side of a shared bed, and he would lose the anchor to his happiness, the freedom to love Jemma as he so desperately desired. When she wanted to return their friendship to its previously platonic nature, most likely so they could focus on the mission, he would do as she asked without hesitation or question – but it would tear him apart.

“Hey,” her voice came from the bed, and he looked up from their dilapidated maroon carpet. Jemma was watching him, a frown etched on her forehead and her blouse crumpled in her hands. “Where did you go?”

Fitz took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had at least the next twelve hours to keep pretending, and shook his head. “Nothing – nowhere.” He climbed onto the bed, and she scooted back to make room. “I was just trying to decide where to start,” he murmured, dragging his gaze from her bare legs to her eyes, watching her pupils dilate in response to the roughness of his voice. One of the more interesting things he’d learned over the past few weeks was how Jemma reacted to his accent when they were in bed, and so he’d taken to intentionally increasing the lilt of his brogue during their nights together, always intently watching the way her words caught in her throat or her eyes darkened. 

“What about... here,” she teased breathlessly, tapping the inside of her left elbow. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, hovering about a foot above her left side – before leaning over and pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin of her right elbow. Jemma tsked, and he smiled at her amused exasperation. When he flicked his tongue against the crease she whimpered, and he guessed that this would forestall any scolding from her for quite some time. The skin there was soft and warmer than the rest of her arm, veins so close to the surface he could trace them with his tongue, light tremors spiraling out from his touch to the rest of her body. As he kissed further and further down along her arm, moving to her ribs and then her hips, tracing the curves and dips he now knew so well, Fitz tried not to think about how every press of his lips to any part of her could be the last.

That night, he used his tongue to memorize every crevasse of her skin and his hands to hold her as close as two people could possibly be and his lips to tell her both everything that he felt and none of it. Jemma clutched him just as close and met him lick for bite, and he thought that, maybe, she was worried about the future for them, too. So he kissed her like she was his wife, and she whispered his name, and even the noises from the gamblers and reprobates faded almost completely away.

 

\------

 

_Three Days Before the Mission_

 

A hand hovered into Fitz’s vision, sharply pale against the gymnasium’s grey concrete ceiling. He let out a pained groan for good measure, and an annoyed huff emitted from the owner of the hand.

“For heaven’s sake, Fitz, I didn’t kick you _that_ hard.” Simmons waggled her fingers in front of his face, and he guessed she was probably grinning, counting down the number of times she’d knocked him flat on his back during their first joint combat training session in a week. After another few seconds, he grasped her hand, not really needing the lift but taking advantage of her lack of balance in that position to spin her around and catch her in a loose chokehold. 

“Just keeping you on your toes, Simmons,” he said against her ear, grinning and mostly successfully being completely unaffected by her closeness. Although he couldn’t see her face, he could practically hear her rolling her eyes. Without missing a beat, she elbowed him in the ribs and slipped out of his grasp, giving a sharp kick to the back of his knee to really finish him off.

Fitz let out an indignant grunt as he landed back on the mat, watching Jemma bounce back and forth with her fists raised. “You were saying?” 

Raising a hand in surrender, Fitz couldn’t stop his laughter. “Yeah, okay, you’re better at hand-to-hand combat.”

“It’s my sleek physique and quickness,” she chirped, parroting May’s words at a training update briefing a few days prior.

“Well, I scored better at marksmanship, so I’m not totally useless,” he grumbled, getting inelegantly to his feet.

“Oh, Fitz,” she said, landing a few play-punches on his upper arm. “You could never be useless.”

He cupped a hand behind his ear. “But?”

Simmons smiled, and trotted over to grab their water bottles. “No punch line. I mean it.” He ducked his head, grabbing his bottle and taking a long drink to avoid having to deal with the compliment. After she took a swig, Simmons stared at him in that penetrating, critical way she’d always studied her textbooks or microscopes, and then gave a short nod. “I’m glad I was assigned to be married to you, Fitz. It’ll be much easier for us to pretend than it would be with anyone else on the team, especially because we bicker enough already.”

In the middle of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Fitz raised an eyebrow. “Thanks... I think.” 

“Don’t be tetchy, I meant it as a compliment.” She turned towards the punching bags a little further down the Playground’s gymnasium. A few other agents were practicing nearby, scattered around the exercise equipment, but with only a short time left before FitzSimmons went undercover they had priority on almost all the training equipment. When a specialist waved Simmons over to take her bag, it was nice, but they’d both agreed earlier that such gestures were equally disconcerting, as if the whole building expected them to need as much time as possible. Which was true, but it also implied a certain amount of doubt about their return that made them both uncomfortable.

“No, really, I completely agree,” Fitz said, holding the other side of the bag still while Simmons hit it. “I can’t imagine pretending to be married to any of the others.” He paused, distracted briefly by the curve of her bicep as she flexed and punched, and then looked quickly down at the blue, spongy material of the floor. “Although, actually, hold on. Yeah, I’ve got someone else I could pretend with, definitely.”

“Oh?” Simmons was smiling, though there was a tinge of genuine curiosity behind the amusement.

Fitz nodded very seriously, shifting on his feet to hold the bag more securely. “Director Coulson.” Simmons let out a burst of laughter, leaning against the bag and dropping her head down so that it was only a foot or so away from his. “He’s a very nice man, you know. Thoughtful, good teeth. Very gentle probably...”

“I’ll be sure to tell the Director you think so.”

Both scientists jumped into the air and Fitz spun around, face flushing at the sight of May standing behind him, already having changed out of her workout gear. She’d released them from training a few minutes earlier, but, high on endorphins and feeling relatively positive about the upcoming mission, they’d decided to spar for a little longer.

“A-agent May, I didn’t, I mean, that wasn’t supposed...”

“Hush, Fitz,” Simmons whispered, tapping a hand against his arm. He did as she said and swallowed his embarrassment, trying to remind himself that May probably couldn’t care less.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you two together about something, but I’m only going to say this once, so listen.” The two scientists glanced at each other and then nodded, neither noticing exactly how in sync even that small action appeared to observers. “I don’t know what the status of your personal relationship is –” She held out a hand to forestall any interruptions. “– And I’m not asking. But I’m going to make the educated guess that you’ve never done more than kiss each other before.” May paused, waiting this time for a response, and Fitz nodded, unsure of what Simmons’ reaction was because he couldn’t quite look at her, his skin flushing pink. “So let me be blunt. Sometimes, and especially during this kind of mission, sex is just sex. Not everything has a deeper meaning, and even less so when in deep cover.”

Simmons scoffed, her arms folded defensively over her workout shirt. “We’re both adults, Agent May.” 

“And we’re not bloody virgins, either,” Fitz muttered. 

May sighed wearily, folding her hands in front of her, and Fitz wondered suddenly if he’d _ever_ heard her talk this much at once before about something that wasn’t calisthenics. “You can ignore me if you want, but your friendship –” She faltered, something like wistfulness flickering behind her calm façade. “I’ve never seen anything like what the two of you have. SHIELD – more importantly, our team, has a vested interest in both of you returning from this mission in one piece. And that includes your relationship.” Without waiting for any further comments, she spun on her heel and exited the gymnasium, leaving the two friends to stare uncomfortably after her.

“That was a rather long way of telling us not to fuck it all up,” Fitz bit out, and Simmons tutted at him, striding over to collect the rest of her workout gear. 

“That’s not what she meant.”

“And why does everyone in this bloody agency think that we’d be afraid of sex?”

“She meant with each other, Fitz,” Simmons whispered, but he was on a roll of indignation and didn’t stop to hear her. 

“It’s not like we were hermits! We had normal adult lives before getting on that blasted plane, you know, with dates and sex and–”

“Fitz!” Simmons snapped, turning from her gym bag to glare at him straight on. “Stop being so defensive.”

He deflated instantly, mouth gaping open as he tried to back out of the awkwardness quicksand into which he felt himself slipping. “I... sorry.”

“Everyone’s just trying to help us stay alive,” she reminded him, picking up her now-packed things.

Fitz shook his head at himself, grabbing his gym bag to hid the flush he could feel creeping up the back of his neck. “I know, I was being a right arse –”

“Yes, you were.” But she smiled as she said it, holding the door open for him as they exited the gymnasium together.

“I guess I owe you a beer, then?” 

“I’ll put it on your tab,” she teased, and Fitz grinned, feeling – for the moment – that maybe this mission wouldn’t be quite so difficult after all, with Simmons by his side.

 

\------

 

 _One Hundred-Eleventh Day_ (Part 1)

 

Their new street was quiet at one in the morning, a cool breeze filtering through the leaves as Shawn unceremoniously shoved Fitz and Jemma out the door of his wife’s car, despite their giggled protests. In all fairness, they’d spent most of the car ride making out in the backseat – this was theoretically to avoid the others noticing that neither of them was actually as drunk as they were pretending, although Fitz had sort of lost track of that aim and instead was focused on finding Jemma’s lips as soon as they were standing. She made a brief noise of surprise as he caught her and slanted her mouth open in a heated kiss, the kind that he usually saved to make an exit from a crowded room. But Jemma didn’t object, instead grasping at his belt loops to pull him closer – which was followed by Georgie exuberantly honking her horn.

“Wait ‘til you get inside your new apartment, porn stars!”

Shawn shook his head good-naturedly at his wife and pulled his door closed, waving as they drove off. Fitz only vaguely acknowledged this because Jemma had reached inside his jeans pocket to remove their new keys and his breath hitched. As she dragged him behind her to the apartment, Fitz tried to force himself to clear his head – there were no syndicate members in their new, private townhouse, so there was no reason for them to have sex, and that meant that he needed to calm down. Memories of Jemma gasping in ecstasy beneath him flitted through his mind and he shook his head vigorously, unable to think of anything to distract himself.

It didn’t help that she had done something with her makeup and hair tonight that made her look flat-out stunning, the normally soft angles of her face sharp and her eyes smoky. Jemma had always been unnaturally attractive – Fitz would have admitted that even before he’d actually recognized his feelings for her. But tonight she was both beautiful and fierce, and he was having trouble not imagining what she would look like writhing above him in bed, pale skin in stark contrast to the shadowed ceiling.

Once Jemma figured out the lock and swung the door open, she reached back and pulled Fitz inside, kicking the door closed behind her and pushing him against the wall. Her lips moved hungrily against his, her fingers clung to the zipper of his leather jacket, and Fitz groaned as he felt her hips press against him. “S-stop, Jemma!” His voice was low and breathy, almost unrecognizable to his own ears. She tilted her head up to meet his eyes but didn’t remove her hips from where they pressed and it was all Fitz could do not to grab her waist and grind against her. “There’s – no one else here. No reason – for sex.”

Still breathing heavily herself, Jemma grinned, and Fitz dropped his head against the wall as he felt her palm his painfully-obvious erection through his jeans. “Seems like a good enough reason for me, Fitz.”

He tried desperately to focus on why this was a bad idea, why they’d been so nervous about having sex at all only a month ago. Sleeping together to maintain their cover was one thing, but doing it just because they _both_ wanted to... Fitz did a mental double take, and looked down at Jemma, her normally bright eyes dark with want. 

“It’s just sex, Fitz.” She punctuated her words by brushing her lips against his, her warm breath making him shiver. “And we know now that we’re both quite good at it,” she added, stepping away from him to stride into the living room. Fitz took a shuddering breath, and Jemma paused in the archway to turn back to him, streetlight revealing a sliver of doubt working its way across her face. “But... I don’t want you to feel pressured, if you don’t want to –”

“Are you joking?” He couldn’t stop himself from growling, the very suggestion making his temper flash. “Of course I bloody _want_ to. But –” Fitz sighed, raking a hand through his curls. “I just don’t know if it makes sense. For us.”

Jemma rolled her eyes, throwing her hands out in front of her. “Oh, _Fitz_. We’ve spent far too much of our lives doing what makes _sense_. We went to the Academy, graduated early, accepted SHIELD’s offer, and... Ugh, what about just doing something because we want to? Because it feels – good.” She faltered at those last two words, and Fitz would’ve bet that a blush was blooming on her cheeks under the shadows. 

“I don’t know what you’ve done with my lab partner,” Fitz teased, and Jemma laughed, a small release in the tense air between them. “But, whoever you are, you _are_ making a lot of... sense.” He pushed away from the wall, excitement zipping through his veins like electricity or code through an interface.

“Well then,” she said, her voice lowering and a slow smile working outwards as she lifted away her yellow silk blouse. “Follow me.”

Fitz watched the smooth, moonlit curve of her back disappear around the corner and then hastened after her, all thoughts of logic having been dashed from his head.

“Always, Jemma.”


	5. Drink It All Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then how am I any better than Ward?” It was the first time he’d said his former team member’s name in months, easier to pretend that he’d never existed than to acknowledge the gaping hole left by the murderer Fitz had once considered a friend.
> 
> Jemma’s gaze flashed back up to his eyes, studying him. “Because you’re doing it for a good cause.”
> 
> “Who decides that, Jemma? How do we know what causes are good and what aren’t?” He used to know the answer to that question, had never doubted SHIELD's rightness or the guidance of his own moral compass. Until their former friend had shown him that a lack of doubt did not always mean certainty, that trust did not equal truth, and that Fitz's own judgment was far from flawless.

_Forty-Ninth Day_

 

Jemma was tracing her finger along the upper curve of Fitz’s jaw, from just under his ear along to his chin, and he was clenching every muscle in his body so as not to shiver. Her giggles and the fact that she had pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she stared up at him were really not helping the matter.

Georgie had insisted they join her at the bar she tended (owned by her father, naturally), assuring them that it would be a big gathering of “good people,” and that they “gotta-gotta- _gotta_ ” be there. The dance floor was packed, red and purple lights strobed against spangled shirts, and almost every person in sight was involved with the Wellers in one way or another. It had been easy up until that point for Fitz and Jemma to avoid genuinely drinking much, but Georgie had fixated on Jemma, daring her to do a shot-for-shot when Fitz had been in the restroom, and the next thing he knew he was looking after a very, _very_ drunk undercover biochemist. He’d spirited her away as soon as he’d figured out why she kept trying to get him to do “the robot,” but now they were alone in their motel room and Fitz wasn’t exactly sure this was better. 

“Sometimes I like the stubble but other times I don’t like the stubble, d’you know what I mean?” Jemma was speaking in a sort of speed-mumble, not slurred but also not up to her normal standards of elocution, her eyes still fixed on Fitz’s jaw. 

At Trip’s insistence, Fitz had started growing out his stubble just before leaving the Playground a month and a half ago, intentionally keeping it messy to match his cover's wayward lifestyle. Personally, he preferred his normal clean-shaven look, but mostly because it was far simpler to keep up.

“Not sure I do, Jemma,” Fitz said, grinning in spite of himself. 

“At home... I mean, not home, but the places we call our home, the Bus or the –” She tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger (or tried to, anyway, missing on the first tap and then poking what looked like far too firmly to compensate). “ _You know_ places. Those places. What was I saying? OH! Yes, your face. Your face, Fitzopold, is very symmetrical, has anyone ever told you that?” Jemma shifted so she was standing in front of him, seeming to measure the proportions of his facial features. 

“Cannot say they have.” His smile was so wide his cheeks were starting to hurt; he hadn’t seen Jemma like this in years, and he’d forgotten how adorable she was under the influence. And it was much better for him to focus on the adorable rather than on the tight-fitting black shirt she was wearing, in line with her undercover persona. (The skirt she had on was pretty enough, with bluish-green flowers, but it was the shirt that had caused him to drool out the water he’d been drinking when she stepped out of the motel bathroom earlier that night.)

“Well, it is. And you have a low body fat percentage, which is very pleasant, not that it really matters to me what body fat percentage my best friend has, because that would be a very strange thing to consider when looking for friends, I think.” She poked him in the center of his chest and then stared at the slight indentation her finger had made in his collared shirt. Thinking that she was done, Fitz tried to guide her to the bathroom to brush her teeth, but instead she suddenly grabbed his face with both hands, returning to staring at his jaw.

“The stubble covers up some of the symmetry of your face, I think, which is why I find it so unsettling. That really must be it. Your jaw is so nice without the stubble, so... defined. It suits your face. The stubble hides that, and my brain must be subconsciously reacting to that change. I can’t imagine why else I want to keep looking at it, it simply doesn’t make sense.”

Her fingers gently traced the edges of the stubble as she scrutinized his face, her eyes traveling briefly over his lips and then away again. They had shared hundreds of kisses now, so many that he’d had to stop counting, but it never seemed like enough. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth again, eyes tracing his jaw as he focused in on her mouth, lips still bright red even though her makeup had worn off on glasses and bottles. Fitz felt himself leaning in, dizzy at her closeness, and abruptly forced himself to break away, pulling off his leather jacket for something to do. 

“Sorry Jemma, but the stubble’s staying for a while.” 

“It makes kissing interesting. Yes, that’s the right word. Interesting.”

Fitz angled his head towards where she was standing in the center of the room, swaying slightly but still focused intently on him. He let out a nervous chuckle and pressed his hand against her back to guide her towards the bathroom. “Alright, bedtime for you, I think.”

Now pensive, Jemma obediently let him lead her to the door, but turned once within the frame. “I like it. The scruff.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “After you just spent ten minutes telling me why you hated it?” 

“Saying that something is unsettling is not the same as saying one hates it, Fitzopold,” Jemma chided, tapping her finger on his chest, and then splaying her fingers just underneath his collarbone. “Hmm.” 

“Jemma?”

“Yes?” 

“Teeth-brushing. Bed. You.”

“Right.”

 

\------

 

_Ninety-First Day_

 

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Fitzgerald, she can’t drive the fucking car.”

Nate was in one of his bad moods – which Jemma theorized were often due to withdrawal from one substance or another, although they had no evidence to prove that hypothesis – and was taking it out on them while they cased an electronics warehouse. Or, really, stood behind an electronics warehouse doing nothing. In typical Nate fashion, he’d obeyed Charlie’s order to bring the Married Marksmen along, but dug his heels in whenever they wanted to actually be involved. So when Fitz suggested that Jemma drive the getaway car the night of the raid, Nate lashed out, clearly impatient to go see what Ethan had sussed out about the video cameras.

“And why the fuck not?” Fitz was incensed, his hands balled into fists while Jemma stood warily next to him. This was not the first time Fitz and Nate had had this kind of argument, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “She’s a better bloody driver than you are –”

“Because I motherfucking said so. Stay here, keep watch, and don’t get pinched.” With that, Nate strode off around the corner of the building while Fitz glared impotently after him.

“You have to learn to pick your battles with him, Fitz,” Jemma warned, leaning back against the warehouse’s painted-brick wall.

“He’s just such a bloody bastard about you, Jemma, it makes me so angry –” He paced as he vented, trying to get out some of the adrenaline he’d built up in the last five minutes. “Why does your anatomy make them think you’re any less absolutely brilliant than you are? It doesn’t matter that you’re a _girl_ –” 

“Woman,” she corrected him, “and do you honestly think it doesn’t make _me_ angry? You know better than anyone else how hard I had to work to be treated the same as the male scientists at the Academy and Sci-Ops, and now I’m here, being treated like a–a –” Her frustration caused her to stumble over her words, as she almost never did, and she closed her eyes briefly. “Like an accessory, by these morally-bankrupt imbeciles.” Jemma met his gaze and gave him a tired headshake. “But grin-and-bear-it is my job right now, and I will continue to do so until we can send these bastards to jail and go home.” 

“I don’t want you to grin-and-bear-it,” Fitz muttered petulantly, chastened by her seemingly infinite patience but refusing to relinquish his anger. “I want them to change their minds.” 

She smiled at him then, and something fluttered in his chest as he felt his anger dissipate under her influence. “I appreciate that, Fitz, but let’s keep our assignment a priority, okay?”

“Yeah – yeah, I know,” he said, going to lean against the wall beside her. “How long d’you think he’ll make us wait here?”

“Until he’s finished riding on Ethan’s coattails and realized that he needs a ride back to the Boarding House.” Jemma frowned, crossing her arms over her satin blouse. “What I don’t understand is why Charlie even keeps him on. He’s not related to them.”

Fitz sighed. “I cannot believe I’m going to say this, but, when he isn’t being a raging bastard, Nate can actually be a decent strategist. Which isn’t often, but that seems to work well enough for Charlie.” He gave her a pointed look. “Besides, the big man and I haven’t exactly moved on to intimate conversations yet, much as I’ve tried.” She chuckled and nodded, glancing up at him from underneath long waves of hair.

The weather was gorgeous, cool and sunny, and standing outside would have been infinitely pleasant if they weren’t staring at other concrete buildings, the only ambient noise coming from the nearby highway. They stood silently for a few minutes, keeping watch while their minds wandered. In his peripheral vision Fitz saw Jemma turn her head, studying him, and he shifted one shoulder against the wall to face her when she spoke. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

Fitz shrugged, scuffing his boot against the concrete. “Still annoyed with Nate, but that’s not new. You?” 

Mirroring him, Jemma also shrugged, flicking her eyes up to his. “Just thinking about sucking your cock.”

All of a sudden Fitz found himself in the middle of an intense coughing fit, as if he’d breathed in something that went down his windpipe or his throat had spontaneously malfunctioned. When he managed to catch his breath, his face hot and red from a lack of oxygen and general embarrassment, he saw that Jemma was giggling uncontrollably, hand covering her mouth.

“I considered using more accurate terminology, but I am _completely_ vindicated that your reaction to the vernacular was more amusing.”

Fitz wheezed out a small laugh. “Oh, God, you were just winding me up. Very – very funny, Jemma –” 

“Oh, no,” she interrupted, her eyes wide and earnest. “I was serious. I just wanted to torment you a little first.” 

His mouth dropped open, and a jolt of arousal slithered south, despite his attempt to suppress it. “I... okay.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling that Nate is still suspicious of our identities – why else would he continue to be reluctant to give us real work? So I thought it would be a good idea to have sex somewhere he might happen upon us. We have a few minutes yet before he’s due back, and me sucking you off seems to be the most practical of our options.” 

Fitz’s coughing fit returned briefly, and he felt himself get definitively hard in his jeans. She _had_ to stop using that phrase – where had she even learned it? No, wait, he didn’t want to think about the answer to that question.

They’d had sex four times now in the not-privacy of their Boarding House apartment (not that he was counting), and as much as he had been thoroughly looking forward to returning home tonight to continue “securing their cover,” _this_ was not something he would ever have expected Jemma to suggest.

“I don’t – doesn’t that seem a little extreme?”

“Not especially.”

“And we don’t have any condoms.”

“I do,” she chirped, pulling one of the square, foil packages out of her purse. “I put a few in here two days ago, correctly guessing that we might need them to maintain our cover elsewhere.” 

“You’ve thought of everything,” he muttered, staring dumbly at her. Smiling, she took a step towards him and hummed in agreement. As she reached a hand out to him, though, he had an idea. “Ah-ha! But, what we were just talking about, with the Wellers being right arses about you being a girl – er, woman? Wouldn’t Nate seeing you – doing – _that_ , I mean, wouldn’t it just reinforce that?” 

Jemma frowned and dropped her eyes from his face. “Oh.”

Fitz grinned widely; he’d thought of something she hadn’t. “And by that logic, wouldn’t it make more sense for _me_ to –” 

“No,” she interrupted, brows still furrowed in thought. “I’d have to remove too many clothes, in addition to –” Her eyes lit up as she halted in mid-sentence, staring down at his jeans. “You’re hard.” 

He shook his head vigorously and took a step back. “No, no, I’m not, that’s an optical illusion.” 

She followed him, smiling in a way that made him simultaneously excited and nervous, and he kept backing up until he couldn’t go any further while staying concealed by the edge of the building. Once he stopped moving, she pressed herself against him and locked her eyes onto his. “Yes, you are. You want me to –”

“Don’t –”

“ _Suck you off_ in public.”

Fitz couldn’t suppress the quiet groan that escaped from his lips as she repeated that phrase, somehow even _more_ turned on by the fact that she seemed to know exactly what her words were doing to him. In a mere moment, she’d managed to undo his jeans and pull him out from his boxers, the confident slide of her fingers making him twitch in her hand as even more blood drained from his normally coherent brain. This new Jemma, who had appeared the night they first had sex and was tantalizingly ready to try almost anything, was both familiar and completely foreign to him, and somehow that made her about ten times more alluring than she already had been. She gave him a few, slow strokes, just watching his face as she did so, attention flickering to his jaw when it dropped down or his mouth when he released a low moan of pleasure and anticipation.

“Why are you so reluctant, Fitz?” She whispered, her breath fanning his chin, and he swallowed, all of his brainpower having been reduced to the feeling of her soft, warm fingers tightening around him, her thumb slowly circling the tip and making his pulse jump. 

“I cannot remember.” At that, she smiled triumphantly and removed her hand, allowing him a moment to breathe while she opened the condom. “What about my argument?” He barely remembered anymore why he was arguing, but dimly felt like it was necessary. For some reason.

Jemma raised an eyebrow. “Which was...?” When he just opened his mouth but couldn’t think of a single thing to say, she just smirked. “I thought so. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t care what those people think about our covers’ sex life, as long as they believe we have one. Now,” she instructed, rolling the condom into place, “don’t make too much noise. We don’t want anyone else to find us.”

Fitz choked off a laugh as her lips were suddenly wrapped around the head of his cock and he let out a shamefully high-pitched moan. She’d done this for him once before, and even though that memory was still burned into his brain, something about this was completely different, more vivid, the thrill of knowing they could be found at any moment twining in his chest, doubling up on his arousal and affection for her.

Jemma glanced up from where she was kneeling and pulled her mouth away with a soft pop. “Fitz,” she scolded, the look on her face oddly reminiscent of when he forgot to label something properly in the lab. “What did I just say?”

Unsure of how else to keep himself from making noise, he brought up a hand to cover his own mouth and then looked down for her approval. She just smiled and then slid her tongue along the underside of the shaft, tracing the vein that pulsed there, and he bit down on his hand. This was risky, probably unnecessary, and Nate would almost definitely yell at them for getting distracted, but, fuck all, Fitz couldn’t care less right now. Having Jemma lave her tongue along every inch of him, staring up at his reactions with her impossibly round, honey-brown eyes, was driving him completely mad, and he suspected he wouldn’t last long at all.

Before this week, Fitz would never have guessed that his best friend knew how to do things like this with her tongue, and every time she traced a new path his breath hitched. When she formed her mouth into an “o” and pressed a kiss to the tip, slowly taking it into her mouth and circling the head with her tongue, his hips twitched, and he tried listing the chemical components of weapons-grade polymer to delay the pressure rapidly building inside him. After a few more moments of licking and teasing, she slid him as far in as he could possibly go, until he could feel the slight press of the back of her throat. 

Time stilled as he stared down at Jemma’s mouth stretched fully around the base of his cock, lips flushed pink against his skin, and he had the wild, bizarre urge to kiss her. To say thank you, or _I love you_ , or something in between. But they couldn’t delay, and the idea was wiped from his mind when she provided slight suction as she pulled away and then took him all the way back into her mouth, setting up the rhythm that would take him over the brink. His hips stuttered forward then, even though he tried to stop himself, and she just brought up a hand to stroke him simultaneously, picking up the pace in time with his own, hesitant thrusts. Somehow she seemed all around him, every touch managing to anticipate where he wanted her next, every one of her movements ratcheting up his arousal and further clouding his already foggy mind. 

After a few passes, Jemma pulled the length of his shaft into her mouth and sucked more firmly than before, reaching into his boxers and gently rolling his testes between her fingers. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasped into his hand, unable to stop himself, shivering at the pressure of her fingertips in all the right places, staring down at the way her cheeks hollowed out around him. She glanced up, and when she made a small noise, the vibrations of her silent warning surrounding his cock, a spasm of pleasure shot through his whole body and he hit his head sharply against the warehouse wall. Luckily, Jemma didn’t notice, or he was sure she would have stopped to inspect him and that was absolutely the last thing he wanted right now.

The need to hold her somehow, to be as connected as possible, was almost all consuming by this point, and Fitz gave in, sliding his other hand over one of her cheeks, providing no pressure and gliding his thumb along the softness of her skin, holding her as if she was the most precious person in the world. Jemma glanced up at him then, and he would swear that had her mouth not been occupied in the best way possible she would be smiling at him. Being able to watch her as she did this, see her confidence and trust in him, and the way she kept looking for his own reactions, made that familiar spring tighten deep inside him, his breathing coming in shorter, sharper gasps, knowing that with the right twist of her tongue he'd fly over the edge. That is when she started humming on the downstroke, and this, with the friction created by her faster pace and the sight of Jemma staring up, hands and mouth full of him, pushed him over into oblivion, his hips bucking forward as he came. She sucked firmly around his cock as he moaned out his climax, unable to care about her previous warning while her tongue slid rhythmically against him and pleasure shuddered through every molecule of his body.

Fitz forced his eyes open as his orgasm faded, realizing that he’d leaned forward on her shoulder during his release, and lifted his hand away from her, embarrassed by how much his legs quivered as he shifted his weight entirely onto them. Jemma removed the condom from him but before she could dispose of it he pulled her up to give her a long, affectionate kiss, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and tasting his own saltiness and a faint echo of the latex on her tongue. When he released her lips and brushed his nose against hers, she gave him the world’s most blinding smile, a light blush blooming on her cheeks. 

“You are amazing,” Fitz murmured, staring intently into her eyes as he tried to express exactly how much joy Jemma brought him, and primarily not in regards to their new sex life (even though he was very, _very_ much enjoying that, too). She ducked her head slightly and he kissed her forehead, fervently wishing that they had more time now for him to just hold her. But he could never hold her long enough, even when they had whole nights to themselves. Then Fitz saw Nate striding towards them and he swore under his breath, realizing that he was still exposed. He spun towards the wall to tuck himself back in and zip up his jeans, feeling deeply thankful that this particular foolish decision hadn’t attracted anyone else’s attention.

“That was completely fucking useless, I need to go back –” Nate halted his complaint as he saw Fitz turn back around, hand dropping away from his zipper, and Jemma brush dirt off of the knees of her jeans. His mouth twisted in annoyance, and he whirled around in the direction he came from. “Like fucking rabbits, _Jesus_ ,” they heard him mutter, and Jemma grinned up at Fitz, looping her arm through his as they followed behind Nate and passing over a tissue that presumably held the used condom. Fitz lobbed it into a nearby trashcan and then pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, wondering how he could have ever doubted that doing something like that with Jemma could possibly have been a bad decision. (The immutable analytical portion of his brain disagreed strongly, but Fitz was getting much better at ignoring it.)

 

\------

 

_Sixty-Third Day_

 

The Aston-Martin kicked up an enormous cloud of dust as Fitz turned them onto a side road, angling the car up a short hill. Jemma turned the crank wheel on her door to forestall the dust seeping into the car, but it was mostly too late by the time she got it closed, and she waved a hand to clear the air in front of her face. With two months of undercover work under their belt, and with the mission going apace, they’d decided to play hooky for a day and had just spent over three hours driving far away from Atlanta. They would do a routine scan for any foreign devices on their car, but this seemed like enough distance that they could safely shed their covers for a while. Of course, this also gave them the opportunity to make a drop of the more detailed intelligence notes they’d been collecting on the Wellers, but mostly they were looking forward to the day off. 

Fitz parked the car in the shadow of a tree with wide, sprawling limbs and spidery tendrils hanging off its branches, letting Jemma hop out with the scanner while he flicked on their signal scrambler, just in case. The last building they’d seen had been many kilometers back, but they weren’t going to take any chances.

“All clear,” Jemma chirped, leaning into Fitz’s open window. “No tech signals, no people – just us and Betsy.”

“Good,” he answered, rolling up the window and exiting the car. “Scrambler’s on, so we should be all set. You have the coordinates?”

She held out a low-tech GPS, a small dot blinking on the screen with Skye’s suggested location. As they set off, rounding the broad base of the tree, Jemma peered up at the strange strands of plant life dangling off the branches. “This part of the country is quite well known for that – _Tillandsia crinita_ , I think, although for some reason they call it Spanish moss, despite the fact that it is related to neither mosses nor lichens. I suppose the name is more apt for the Southern Gothic aesthetic, despite its complete inaccuracy.”

“Southern Gothic,” Fitz repeated, sliding his hands into his pockets. As they ambled through the low-lying grass, he kept wanting to reach over and take Jemma’s hand as it swung loosely by her side. This small gesture had become a regular part of their undercover lives, but now that they were on a conspicuous break from their fake identities he had to remind himself that Leo Fitz did not get to hold Jemma Simmons’ hand just because he wanted to. “That’s with ghosts and such, yeah?”

“Well, there’s a little more to it than just ghosts, but yes.” She grinned up at him, pushing a stray branch out of the way. “Why, Fitz? Afraid we might run into some?”

“Yeah, no, thanks, I’ve already got enough of my own,” he muttered, staring out at the clearing they’d just entered, feeling the gauze bandage on his hand scrape against the inside of his pocket. His knuckles were healing well enough but Jemma had wrapped his hand this morning anyway, leaving Fitz with a constant reminder of the horrendous beating he’d committed in the name of their “mission” just four days ago.

Seeing through him immediately, Jemma gave a slight sigh. “Oh, Fitz – he isn’t a ghost. Skye said his pronouncement was good, and that SHIELD would get him out of Atlanta as soon as he’s no longer critical.” She tugged his bandaged hand out of his pocket and covered it with hers, making eye contact. “He’s going to live.”

“You and I both know that just living isn’t always enough in terms of recovery,” he retorted, making Jemma wince and look down at their hands. “Y’know, it’s been four days, and I still don’t know... did I make the right call?”

“Yes.” Her answer came out simply and without hesitation, but he just shook his head, knowing that their friendship had prompted that answer rather than the truth.

“You can’t know that, Jemma.”

“I know that you did what you thought you had to do in order to protect us and the mission. It was a high-pressure, dangerous situation, and there’s no shame in that –”

“But then,” he interrupted, the panic that had been simmering at the back of his mind for four days reaching the surface. “Then how am I any better than Ward?” It was the first time he’d said his former team member’s name in months, easier to pretend that he’d never existed than to acknowledge the gaping hole left by the murderer Fitz had once considered a friend.

Jemma’s gaze flashed back up to his eyes, studying him. “Because you’re doing it for a good cause.”

“Who decides that, Jemma? How do we know what causes are good and what aren’t?” He used to know the answer to that question, had never doubted SHIELD's rightness or the guidance of his own moral compass. Until their former friend had shown him that a lack of doubt did not always mean certainty, that trust did not equal truth, and that Fitz's own judgment was far from flawless.

She scoffed. “I’m sure you’re not insinuating that there’s the remote possibility that anything involving Hydra could possibly be _good_.” 

“No, of course not, but...” He faltered, nervous about articulating the doubts he’d been harboring for much longer than the past week. “How do we know that what we’re doing here will ever lead to any good at all?” 

To his surprise, she smiled up at him, gently squeezing his hand. “That’s why we have each other – and the rest of the team, when we’re with them. We’re each other’s touchstones. We _have_ to trust that we’ll figure out what is right and what is wrong, together.” Jemma reached a hand up to his chin, her palm cool against his skin as she turned his head to meet her eyes. “You are not Ward, Fitz. You couldn’t be.” The surge of adrenaline that had carried him through the beating flashed through his memory, nauseatingly potent, and he shook his head. “Besides,” she added, giving his shoulder a light nudge. “I would be the first person to tell you that you crossed a line, you know that.”

He chuckled, the tightness in his chest finally loosening at her words, even if he couldn’t quite believe everything she’d said. “Yeah, course you would.”

“I mean it, Fitz.” The lightness implied by the nudge was nowhere to be found in her expression, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. “If I thought... even for a second... I would tell you.” 

“Yeah.”

“And I’d want you to tell me, too.”

He nodded, but couldn’t possibly imagine Jemma ever being at risk for that. She was too good to want to do anything but help others and solve scientific puzzles, so much better than he would ever be. No matter how hard he tried, Fitz would never forget his sharp desire to pull Garrett apart piece by piece if he had truly killed Jemma as he’d implied on the day that Hydra was revealed. Fitz’s threat to make the other man suffer was not idle, he knew that, had known it when he made it, but it still scared him to have that darkness bubble so quickly to the surface. And the longer he pretended to be married to Jemma, the more unwavering this assurance that he would have avenged her death became.

As they returned to the path, Jemma continued to study the flora around them, occasionally stooping to pick up a leaf or a sprig. “I’m glad you told me.” She glanced back at him, letting her hair fall forward into her face. “You and I, we’re not... we don’t talk about things like this very often. And I think it’s important we keep at it. Being undercover is only going to get more difficult.”

Fitz quirked up the corner of his mouth and nodded, suppressing the thoughts of all the things he hadn’t said (couldn’t say, or wouldn’t). 

Jemma tore off a small, fan-shaped sprig of leaves from a nearby oak, ruffling the edges with her fingertip. “Did you know,” she started, and Fitz grinned full out, “that this plant is called the resurrection fern? It appears to be dead during long periods of drought, but –”

“When given water will revive itself. Yeah, knew that one.” He nudged her shoulder. “Feeling a lack of mental stimulation, eh?”

She groaned, throwing the fern leaf to the side. “It’s driving me absolutely mad, you have _no_ idea.”

“Excuse you, _I_ have no idea?”

“You’ve been able to do some machine work, low-grade though it may be, but I haven’t even been able to get my hands on any microbial samples in two months and, oh, _God_ , I’m going bloody insane, Fitz!” He sniggered, and she glared back at him. “It’s not funny.”

“Yes it bloody well is,” he retorted, jogging to catch up to her. “The two scientists, kept from science, start losing their minds.” 

Jemma shook her head at his amusement, pushing through thicker underbrush with one hand while holding up the GPS with her other. “It’s like an addiction. I didn’t even realize how much I’d miss it – ah, here!” They stepped through a line of bushes to see a slightly smaller oak with a large hollow about six feet up its trunk.

When they both looked around and realized there wasn’t anything for them to use to reach that height, Fitz crouched down. “C’mon, I’ll lift you up.”

Jemma raised an eyebrow, glanced at the tree, and then sighed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Please don’t drop me.” 

As he stood, supporting her under her bent knees and hoisting her higher up, Fitz grumbled, feeling more than a little put out at the implication that he couldn’t carry her for a measly five minutes. “If I drop you, it’s ‘cause you deserve it.” 

She didn’t respond, focusing instead on not tipping over backwards as she pulled their thick, manila envelope of notes out of her satchel and slid it into the hollow. Once she’d felt around inside the tree to make sure there wasn’t anything in it other than a small envelope, Jemma patted Fitz’s head. “Down, boy.” 

Instead of letting her down gently, he dropped her legs, and she slid abruptly to the ground behind him, her feet hitting the grass with a soft thud. She smacked his shoulder with the envelope from the tree, and he snatched it from her hand. Inside was a greeting card with a plain, blue flower pattern on the front and a simple, handwritten message inside: 

_Happy 2-month anniversary! Mom, Dad, and cousin T say hey. Feels pretty empty around here without you two. Can’t wait to hear your bickering again. Love, S_

Jemma made a sad _aww_ , and Fitz couldn’t help but smile. Even though he was happy to be around Jemma all the time, he had to admit that he missed his newer (and slightly stranger) best friend, and occasionally wondered what Hydra horrors Skye was dealing with in their absence. No one else on the Bus shared their mutual love for bad action flicks, and when he’d seen that a new one had been released a couple weeks ago, Fitz couldn’t wait to get home to watch it with her over a couple of beers and his own, gigantic bowl of pretzels. He peeked inside the envelope itself, and was pleased to see a thin, polymer sheet tucked within the paper – they would use this to bug Charlie’s office as soon as possible, now that they had it. After another moment, Jemma sighed, probably thinking about how they’d have to burn Skye’s message later, and dropped the card into the satchel. He held up the bug for her to see and then slid it into his jacket’s inner pocket for safekeeping; hopefully they’d be able to place it soon.

“Back to the car, then?”

Fitz nodded, fishing the keys out of his pocket. “I’m starving. You wanted to drive back, yeah?” 

She plucked the keys from his fingers. “Yes – and I remember seeing a diner only about half an hour away.” They returned the way they came in silence, and Fitz’s mind wandered to their newest task, trying to pull data off the Wellers’ electronic systems, or whatever digital information lurked on the systems behind the Boarding House’s closed doors. The data would all be sent automatically to SHIELD, so once it was in place Fitz and Jemma were to wait for further instructions and continue collecting intel – and, frankly, he wasn’t too keen on just waiting.

“You know,” Jemma said, breaking the silence. “When we passed by that toy store en route to the Boarding House yesterday I actually almost ran in to buy a children’s chemistry kit.” Fitz chuckled; of course she was still thinking about her science deprivation. “It’s awful, I’m reduced to lusting after toy scientific equipment.” She paused, and he watched her cheeks flush in the shadow of the oak trees. “I mean that in an intellectual way, not a...”

“Yeah, no, gotcha. I’ll be sure to tell your next boyfriend that thirty dollar microscopes are the best way into your trousers.” 

“Do you really want to play that game, Fitz? Because I know you’ve had that poster of the capuchin from _Outbreak_ up in every one of your rooms since the Academy –” 

“Hey, _Outbreak_ is a fantastic movie–” 

“You just like Rene Russo.”

“Actually, I prefer the capuchin.” 

She clapped her hands, giggling as they rounded the oak under which they’d parked. “Ah-HA! I knew it!”

Fitz resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at her, sliding grumpily into the passenger seat. “Rene Russo isn’t really my type, is all I meant.”

“Oh?” Jemma grinned at him, releasing the parking break and gunning the engine. “Then who is your type?”

He glanced over at her as she focused on the road and rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know, nosy.” She tsked over the wheel and muttered something about overly sensitive engineers.

As the lime-green car sped down the highway, Fitz put a lot of energy into not thinking about how his type was something along the lines of bossy biochemists with wavy brown hair, soft, curvy lips, and a smile that made even the world’s darkest places seem bright.

 

\------

_One Hundred-Eleventh Day_ (Part 2)

 

While Jemma’s hands were busy removing his belt, Fitz unzipped his leather jacket – albeit slowly, because he was occupied with testing the different sounds she made when he slid his tongue and teeth against different parts of her neck. He reached a sensitive spot just above her collarbone and she whimpered loudly, eyes flying open. “Oh, stop!”

Fitz immediately froze, jacket hanging off of one shoulder, and he met her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?” His eyes dropped down to where her hands were holding open the front of his jeans and he swallowed thickly. 

Jemma shook her head vigorously. “No, no – but don’t take off the jacket.”

His eyes widened and he let her pull his left arm back into the sleeve. “You – want me to keep the jacket on – while we...” 

Her fingers deftly removed first his tie and then started undoing the buttons of his shirt as she gave him an unbearably sexy, warm smile. “I do. I rather like you in that jacket.” 

“Oh.” Fitz’s mind shorted out, either at the idea that Jemma seemed to have an interest in leather or that she’d just managed to get his shirt open and was now smoothing her fingers over the expanse of his skin. After a few more minutes of kissing, while Fitz was focusing on trying to make Jemma’s knees weak, she pushed him back onto the sofa and then stepped quickly out of her skinny jeans. He had two seconds to admire how the length of her pale legs almost glowed in the street-lamps’ light before she straddled his lap, tilting his head up to meet his lips with hers.

In a mere moment, she’d managed to find that point of friction that was exactly, _exactly_ what they both wanted and they moaned in unison, Fitz’s hands clutching Jemma’s hips, fingers sliding under the waistband of her underwear. Jemma slid her tongue against his lips and then pulled back, making eye contact as she continued to rotate her hips, rubbing herself against him and her cheeks flushing with her own arousal, completely driving the air out of his lungs.

Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice reminded him that this wasn’t going to last forever, that eventually they’d find the center of the organization’s Hydra-web and he’d have to go back to not _wanting_ Jemma in this way anymore. But as he raised his hips to better match her movements, watched her eyes flutter closed and mouth drop open, Fitz had the sudden, fierce thought that he’d do whatever he had to for things to stay just as they were, right here, right now.

“Pants off,” Jemma ordered, breathless, shifting fully onto the sofa to give him the necessary space. He grabbed the unopened condom on the table and reached for the elastic band of his boxers – when someone knocked heavily on the front door, causing both of their heads to turn in surprise. The noise dissipated, and Fitz turned back to Jemma, who was still breathing heavily. She shrugged in response, but he’d already forgotten what had surprised them, leaning in again to kiss her soundly. 

“ _Fitzgerald, let me the_ fuck _in!_ ” 

“Fuck,” Fitz muttered against her lips, pulling away and tossing the still-unopened condom onto the coffee table. He had no idea what on earth Nate wanted from him at this time of night, but if he’d driven out here himself it couldn’t be anything good. 

Jemma was already standing, having retrieved her jeans. “Answer the door. I need –” 

“Clothes, yeah, go.” As she scurried up to the bedroom, Fitz yanked his jeans closed, wincing at their tightness. If this wasn’t a matter of life or death, he was going to punch someone. 

Grabbing his gun from the side table where he’d dropped it only a few minutes earlier, Fitz shoved it into the back of his jeans and yanked open the door, a scowl fixed on his face. “What?” 

Nate’s hair was sweaty, as if he was on something or had been running, and he took one look at Fitz’s still unbuttoned shirt and scoffed. “You can get your rocks off later, come the fuck on. They fucked up casing that jewelry place and now Ethan and two of our guys are trapped. We have to get them out.” He started off down the front walk, not waiting for an answer.

Fitz ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, alright, hold on, we need to wait for Jemma.” 

Nate groaned, scratching the inside of his arm. “Can you fuckin’ go anywhere without –”

“I’m here,” came Jemma’s voice from just behind Fitz, as she filled up her own gun with bullets.

“And no, I bloody can’t,” Fitz snapped back at Nate. “She’s my partner.”

“Let’s go.” Jemma dropped the keys into Fitz’s hand and strode past Nate towards the car, where one of his cronies awaited them. 

As they all piled in and Nate revved the engine, Fitz leaned forward over the two front seats. “Where’s the Kevlar?” 

“Don’t got any,” Nate tossed back, speeding down the street and taking a turn at a harsh, heart-stopping angle. “No time.”

Fitz let out a noise of frustration and dropped into the back seat, yanking his seatbelt around his waist at Jemma’s insistence. “Bastard’s gonna get us all killed.”

“Just do what I say, huh? And shut the fuck up.”

Fitz folded his arms, fuming, and started slightly when Jemma laid a hand over his. She leaned up to give him a gentle kiss, and he sighed against her lips, reminded of just what they’d had to leave behind tonight. “We’ll make do,” she murmured, scooting a little closer along the seat, both needing and giving the comfort of proximity.

Jemma patted his knee and left her hand there, relaxing in a position that usually brought Fitz calm and solace. Tonight – or, well, this morning, technically – he tried not to physically tense at her touch, bitterly aware of his persistent arousal, and started scrolling through unappealing images in his head, like drain hair or what would happen if someone burned their cover.


	6. We Could Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz groaned and pressed his palms futilely into his eyelids. His body was having the exact opposite reaction that he wanted it to, and he was torn between being exasperated and wanting to run straight for the showers. No matter how certain parts of his anatomy were behaving, he knew this was unsustainable – if the mission really did last for months, he couldn’t let himself get hard every time he kissed Jemma. Simmons, he thought fiercely to himself. She’s still Simmons. For now. The little voice in the back of his head that added that last clause was the one that was causing him so much grief, and he wondered idly if punching himself in the face would solve anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Playground scene in this chapter was written long before season 2 aired, so obviously it's not a canon location.

_Eighty-Sixth Day_ (Part 3)

 

“Condoms!”

An hour had passed, and Fitz and Jemma were standing at the foot of their bed, millimeters away from kissing, when Jemma made this particular exclamation. Unable to help himself, Fitz burst into laughter born of nerves and the panicked expression on Jemma’s face. She frowned, placing her hands on her hips.

“I’m glad you think that birth control is so hilarious, L– _Scotty_. But we can’t do anything if we don’t have condoms.”

Fitz waved his hand rapidly in front of him, taking huge gulps of air to calm his hysterics. “S-sorry, Jemma, it was – c’mon, it was funny.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, and he straightened up. “So, are you going to the store, or am I?”

“Er...” Fitz flushed, raising his hand to the back of his neck. “Actually, I have a box...” He could feel Jemma’s eyes on him as he stepped quickly into the bathroom and returned with the pack of condoms he’d hidden in his toiletry drawer. “I didn’t – I didn’t think you and _I_ would... after Nate ripped off that store last week, I was helping them sort the goods and he tossed me the box, and – well, you know how he can be, so I thought it’d just be better to leave it alone and take them. I didn’t think I would, you know, need them, or anything, but, hey –” Fitz chuckled awkwardly, desperately wanting to be finished speaking. “Good old Nate, saving us a trip to the store.” His fingers pinched bridge of his nose, and he sighed, cursing himself for making this more awkward than it already was.

Jemma just shook her head and motioned for the box, which he tossed over. It was surreal – more surreal than robbing stores and diners or planning raids – that he was here in this ratty little apartment, discussing condom-buying with _Simmons_ , that, a few minutes from now, he would be _naked_ in this same room with Simmons, and, most of all, that his primary emotion right now was apprehension. 

“This should do nicely,” she said, tossing the box gently onto the nightstand. “Well done, Fitz.”

“Let’s hope you still feel that way in an hour,” he muttered jokingly, trying to lighten the mood but somehow only making himself more nervous.

Jemma smiled and reached around him to dim the overhead light, casting the whole room in a faint, flickering orange glow. “I have faith in your manly prowess, Fitz,” Jemma teased, but her own quiet anxiety faded through anyway. Instinctively, Fitz reached for her hands, using her as the calming anchor he needed, had always needed. “We’ll just keep talking, okay?” She started rambling slightly, which, perversely, helped calm Fitz’s nerves. “To check in with each other. And maybe we should pretend that we actually are our covers for the night. To make the transition easier. What do you think?”

Fitz nodded and licked his lips, noting how her eyes darted down to his tongue and then back to his eyes. “Good idea. It’ll be better for our audience, too,” he added, nodding at the wall where noises of gambling and merriment were still more than faintly audible.

Taking a deep breath, Jemma moved one hand to the back of Fitz’s neck, pulling herself up to press a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, letting him fit his lips properly over hers. They were familiar with kissing each other now, and they’d long since gotten over the strangeness of making out with their best friend in public. It was safer, somehow, knowing that people were watching - knowing that they couldn't and wouldn't go further than that.

But these kisses were taking Fitz’s breath away, a different charge passing between them with every touch or lick or slide of tongue, and his pulse was racing, making everything other than Jemma seem faint and distant. She moaned, a low, sustained sound in the back of her throat, and he clutched her closer, never having known that something as simple as a noise could be that erotic. He _should_ have known, he thought to himself as she started undoing the buttons of his shirt, kissing down his throat – he should have known that everything with Jemma would be heightened, suspended at the uppermost plane of want and affection. For, despite his nerves and various more-logical misgivings, Fitz had never had any doubt that he’d be able to do _this_ with Jemma without needing to retreat behind his cover identity. All he’d ever needed was her.

 

\------

 

_Ninety-Ninth Day_

 

Some days, being undercover didn’t seem like hard work at all. The spring sun was warm on the back of Fitz’s neck, Jemma’s arm was looped through his, and he had permission to stop and kiss her whenever the mood took him – which was probably far too often for their surveillance detail, but he didn’t care. She neither stopped him nor complained, always wrapping one hand around his forearm or sliding it underneath his jacket, leaning eagerly up on her tiptoes to better reach his lips. These kisses were languid, easy, tongues meeting as often as not, both well aware that there would be time enough for heat tonight when they returned to their apartment. During one such break, Fitz encircled Jemma’s waist with his arms, lifting her a few inches off the ground so she didn’t have to keep her balance, and teased her with light, open-mouthed kisses that made her grin against his lips.

“Oi, I’m supposed to be making you passionately dizzy, not amuse you,” he mumbled against her mouth, and she laughed, hooking an arm more securely around his neck. Jemma leaned in and gave him one of what he had mentally-dubbed their “sign-off kisses,” the long, sensual ones that one of them usually used to signal their interest in returning to the apartment at the end of the day.

When she broke away, brushing her lips briefly against his cheek, he dimly registered her smiling through giggles. “Is that more what you had in mind?”

He gave a soft noise of appreciation and then loosened his arms, letting her slide back to her feet. After a while, though, when he hadn’t moved from staring at her mouth, she waved her hand in front of his face. “Fitz? We should get back to walking, yes?”

“Uh, yeah, yes.” Fitz cleared his throat and let go of her waist, ambling forward as she looped her arm through his again. Today’s assignment was to be the lookouts along this quaint, commercial street at the edge of the city while Charlie... well, “spoke to” someone who owed him money in one of the office buildings. Charlie and his accompanying henchmen, Andrew and Nate included, had been in the building for over two hours and showed no sign of leaving, so Fitz and Jemma had just been strolling in the vicinity, convincingly pretending to be so absorbed with each other that they didn’t need to do anything other than meander along this street.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, until Jemma made a small _hmm_ under her breath. “We should have had sex ages ago, Fitz, it’s really excellent in terms of both health and morale.”

Fitz inhaled too sharply and coughed; he had almost completely forgotten for twenty minutes straight that this wasn’t real, that they weren’t just walking and kissing and holding hands because they wanted to, and being reminded of it felt rather like having someone remove all the breath from his lungs at once.

“I’ve been sleeping far more soundly,” she continued once he’d quieted and waved off her concern. “And I think it’s actually extremely beneficial for the mission as a stress reliever.”

Unsure of how to respond, other than to confess that the past two weeks had genuinely been the happiest of his entire, pathetic life, Fitz made a noncommittal noise and slipped his hand into hers. He almost wanted to ask her how she was able to separate the sex from anything resembling feelings; if Fitz hadn’t, in fact, been well aware of his own burgeoning romantic attachment to his best friend before the mission, he would likely have attributed what he was feeling now to adrenaline and endorphins. But unfortunately (as far as he was concerned) he knew precisely how deeply he was falling in love with Jemma, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

A shrill ring broke the one-sidedly-peaceful silence, and Fitz raised his phone to his ear. “All clear?”

“We’ve got a runner. Give ‘im hell for us, kid,” crackled the voice over the phone, Charlie’s accent carrying an extra twang out of stress. 

Fitz dropped the phone back into his pocket and glanced over at Jemma, who started buttoning her yellow, cotton jacket. “I heard. The door, you think?”

But before they could talk through a plan, a man came barreling out of the alley alongside the house they’d been (lackadaisically) watching all afternoon, straight at them. Jemma sunk instantly into a crouch, kicking his legs out from under him with the sweep she’d learned from May. The man stopped his fall with his hands, at which point Fitz grabbed him by the collar and struck his face with three sharp blows, intending to stun him until Charlie’s other men could come out front. Fitz quickly realized that wasn’t enough, though, and when the man tried to fight back he rammed his knee into the man’s nose, breaking it and knocking him out cold. To make sure he didn’t surprise them, Fitz leaned the sole of his boot firmly against the man’s throat and sent Charlie a text telling him where they were. 

After the phone was back in his pocket and he checked to make sure the man was still out, Fitz glanced up to see a faint wince pass over Jemma’s face, and although it passed almost as quickly, he was still thinking about it half an hour later. Once Nate and a couple others had dragged the man away, Charlie patted Fitz on the back, tossed him an envelope of cash, and gave them the next couple days off.

Even though the ideas of what he and Jemma could do alone for over twenty-four hours was almost dizzyingly distracting, Fitz couldn’t quite get that look on her face out of his head. “Hey,” he said, pausing to let her entwine their fingers as they returned to the Aston-Martin. “Are you alright? You looked – I mean, back there, right after, you looked...”

Jemma tilted her head up to him, studying his face while they waited at a crosswalk. Something like concern or confusion flitted over her face, and then, again, it was gone, and she shook her head as she stepped off the sidewalk. “Yes, I’m fine.” A smile spread across her face, and even though Fitz didn’t quite believe her, he didn’t press, too enamored of her smile to risk its disappearance. “A whole day off, Fitz! It’s been ages, not since…” 

“Oh, shite!” He slapped his hand to his forehead and then moved into a brisk jog, making the half a block to the car before Jemma even finished crossing the street. By the time she reached him, bemusement written across her features, Fitz had opened the trunk and pulled out the box he had only just remembered. “I’ve had this blasted thing in the trunk for almost four days. Kept forgetting to bring it up.”

Her mouth dropped open as she took the box from him, incredulous laughter bubbling out of her throat. “A... children's microscope kit.”

“It’s probably against protocol, I know, but I figured we could just chalk it up to your mother’s nurse background if anyone asks.” Jemma raised her eyes to his, a thin sheen of moisture making her eyes glitter in the sunlight, but didn’t say anything as she stared at him. His smile fell, and he found himself asking, rather pathetically, “Don’t you like it? It’s mostly a joke, honestly, and I’ve still got the receipt, so I can return it if you don’t –”

The box slid gently out of her grasp before she flung her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck. “Don’t you _dare_ return it. Thank you, Fitz.”

Relief blooming in his chest, Fitz wrapped his arms around her in turn, holding in his joy as she showed no sign of wanting to let go. He could feel her breathing against his chest, one sharp inhale after the next, and wondered what she was thinking; she had said she was happy, but somehow her behavior didn’t quite match that assertion. After a few minutes, she pulled away, eyes dry but still bright, smiling so broadly that the sun seemed dim by comparison. “Can we go back there tomorrow? To that field, the drop site? There were some truly interesting specimens growing in that field I wouldn’t mind seeing under the microscope. I couldn’t do anything useful with it, of course, but it would be fun to... to see...” Jemma trailed off, flushing self-consciously.

He grasped her hand, hugging it to his chest, feeling an overwhelming fondness for the scientist he’d befriended all those years ago. “That sounds great, Jemma. We can bring a picnic.”

She laughed again, brushing her thumb fondly against his cheek. “Wouldn’t want to starve out there, would we?”

“Fine,” he grumbled as she closed the trunk door behind him and they both made to get into the car. “I’ll just bring food for myself. You’ll see what it’s like out there in a ruddy field without food for four hours.” 

“Normal people don’t starve after four hours without food, Fitz.”

One hand on the steering wheel and the other on the clutch, Fitz stalled with his mouth open, completely blanking on a good comeback. Luckily for him, though, Jemma leaned across the divide to halt his awkwardness with a kiss, and he was embarrassed to admit that the quiet sigh that echoed through the car’s retro interior was probably from him. Because even though in theory any security camera or syndicate member could be watching and would benefit from their small demonstration of affection, this moment, and many others like it in the past two weeks, felt an enormous amount like they were actually dating, and Fitz couldn’t possibly imagine anything better.

 

\------

 

 _Ten Days Before the Mission_ (Part 3)

 

Something about the humid air, or the roof’s concrete floor, or the unseen forest that surrounded the Playground made Fitz think of the council estate at which he’d spent two vivid weeks when he was twelve. His mum’s best friend had invited them to stay, and so as soon as school let out they’d gone, squeezing in the vacation before Fitz’s graduate-level summer classes began. The apartment was cramped and smelled of age, moth-eaten antique lamps illuminating dozens of knickknacks carefully arranged on side tables, shelves, and any surface available.

Young Fitz, starved for enough mental stimulation as it was, found the whole place suffocating, and so had escaped to the theoretically-forbidden rooftop for hours every day. (He’d had to invent a small gadget to pick the lock for him, repurposing various parts of half their electronics, but the peace was worth the reprimand.) In the years that followed, he’d wondered if someone had put some kind of pine scent near the roof to disguise the smells filtered from the rooftop vents, knowing that there was no way he was smelling a real forest from up there.

After abandoning Simmons in the lab, the Playground’s sleek coolness beginning to close in on Fitz in a very different way, he’d escaped up here, breathing a little more easily as soon as he sat down on the concrete wall that stretched out from the roof’s entrance. The irony that he had teased Simmons earlier for overthinking everything was not lost on him as he replayed the evening in the lab in his head second by second, piece by piece.

Thought about the pink flush of her lips up close, the smooth arc of the top lip as he pulled the bottom one gently into his mouth, the way her tongue’s teasing started out gently and then increased in competitiveness and audacity. Thinking alone was making his pulse race, and he rubbed his eyes, pressing the reversed-rainbow of colors into his sight in the vain hope that it would force him to stop thinking about Simmons as if he _wanted_ her. He did, he bloody knew he did, but thinking about it was the problem. There wouldn’t be a problem as long as he didn’t think about it. Didn’t think about the scrape of her nails through the short curls at the back of his neck, didn’t think about the involuntary whimper she’d made when he’d ghosted his lips across hers, didn’t think about the moment he opened his eyes mid-kiss to see her staring back at him and they’d continued, watching each other like the world’s most puzzling and enthralling experiment.

Fitz groaned and pressed his palms futilely into his eyelids. His body was having the exact opposite reaction that he wanted it to, and he was torn between being exasperated and wanting to run straight for the showers. No matter how certain parts of his anatomy were behaving, he knew this was unsustainable – if the mission really did last for months, he _couldn’t_ let himself get hard every time he kissed Jemma. _Simmons_ , he thought fiercely to himself. _She’s still Simmons. For now_. The little voice in the back of his head that added that last clause was the one that was causing him so much grief, and he wondered idly if punching himself in the face would solve anything.

 “There isn’t usually anyone else up here this time of night.”

Fitz jumped a foot in the air at the sound of May’s voice, but folded himself right back up again, wishing somewhat wildly that the concrete would just swallow him whole because _oh lord_ he was still hard and the taste of Simmons’ lips was still on his tongue and now May was staring at him as if he’d gone completely mad.

“Everything alright, Fitz?” 

“Yeah, sorry, just –” He cleared his throat, hoping that the squeak wasn’t too noticeable. “A lot to think about. Ten days to go, and all that. Came up here for a little peace and quiet.”

May nodded. “I won’t bother you – I’m going over here to do my Tai Chi.” With that, she strode away, just as unaffected by his awkwardness as he was consumed by it. Fitz wondered if he would ever feel comfortable enough around her to ask her how she did that, turned off that part of her brain that worried about interactions or conversations or herself.

“Agent May,” he blurted out, catching her just before she rounded the staircase’s corner. “I just – sorry about earlier.” She turned to look at him, her face shadowed by the wall. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you in the meeting. You were probably right to ask, to be honest. We bicker like we’re married – pretty much always have – but that’s not the same. I know that.”

May nodded slightly, accepting his apology. “Coulson has faith in you both.” She made to continue towards the other side of the roof, but when Fitz opened his mouth again, she stopped mid-turn, waiting for him to continue. “Did you want to say something?”

He glanced down at his hands on his knees, not sure how to phrase what he wanted to ask.  “I just... I was wondering – if you don’t mind saying – or, you’re busy, it doesn’t –” 

“Words, Fitz.”

“Right. I...” He heaved a weighted breath, and forced himself to just say what he’d been thinking. “What’s it like? Coming back from something like this? Going undercover for so long. I know – you’ve said you hate undercover, so. Do you... will things ever be the same?”

Now that he’d said the words out loud (even if it had been borderline incomprehensible) and was watching for May’s reaction (if she gave him one), Fitz realized he’d wanted to ask those questions for weeks, mulling them over while he ate or doodled ideas for new designs. Of her, specifically, because – more than any of the other remaining specialists – Fitz thought that May would be the most likely to give him an honest answer.

May stared back at him for a few moments before stepping further into the light. “No mission’s ever the same as another. But, no. Everything’s always different when you come back.”

“Did it ever change you? Living undercover?” 

“Yes.” 

Fitz glanced away, over the tops of the trees barely visible over the roof’s concrete edge. “I don’t want it to change me.” She strode purposefully into his line of sight, surprising him, their sudden proximity forcing him to look up at her.

“Then don’t let it.” 

After a moment, Fitz lowered his eyes to the ground, skeptical of how simple she made it sound. He didn’t know how to separate himself from the events and people around him the way she did – his doomed friendship with their former team member had shown him that. When he returned his gaze to hers, she pursed her lips and gave him a small nod of encouragement, turning quickly on her heel to return to her previous task.

Fitz stood, brushing dirt off his jeans. “I’m gonna head back in, I think. See how Simmons is getting on in the lab.” May didn’t respond, but something was niggling at the back of his head as he watched her turn more fully into the light at the other end of the roof. “Agent May...” She turned to face him. “You said Coulson has faith in us. Do... I mean, you...”

“Coulson has faith,” May interrupted, anticipating the rest of his question. “I have hope.”

Unsure of the importance of that distinction in her mind, Fitz nodded, sliding through the door and trying to calm his nerves by thinking of questions to ask Simmons about her healing gel. That had always been the best way he knew to distract himself – to disappear into science, a discipline so much simpler than reality.

 

\------

 

_Ninety-Third Day_

 

The sheets were sticky and warm under Fitz’s back, and although he thought about shifting around to find a cooler spot he couldn’t possibly imagine moving. Every muscle in his body felt like rubber, and every few seconds a shiver ran through him from his head to his toes, a faint echo of the completely mind-blowing orgasm from which he was recovering. Jemma lay next to him, equally stunned, sweat shining faintly on her skin from the window light as they both gulped in air, their heads at the foot of the bed. A sheet lay haphazardly over the lower half of her body where Fitz had pulled it only moments ago as he dropped onto the mattress, worried about her getting cold even through his Jemma-addled haze.

He glanced over and smiled – she was staring up at the ceiling, bare breasts rising and falling sharply with her still-heavy breathing.

“That was...” Jemma’s voice was still rough from overuse, which brought to mind what she’d sounded like a few minutes ago and made Fitz flush over his already reddened skin.

“Yeah.” He turned his own gaze to the ceiling, the faded paisley wallpaper somehow seeming deeply inappropriate considering what they’d just done underneath it. “Have you ever...”

“No.”

“And it’s supposed to...” 

“Yes.” She let out a small laugh, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Definitely yes.”

“Yeah. Wow.” Fitz frowned as he replayed a particular moment over in his head. “At one point, did I call you...”

“Yup.”

He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, _lord_.”

Jemma giggled and pulled away the hand nearest to her, bringing it to rest on her stomach. “It’s not that embarrassing.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it is.”

“I liked it.” She was staring studiously down at the palm of the hand that she’d captured, tracing a finger over its wrinkles and lines. “I mean, not all – just at the time. It worked.”

“Oh.”

“It made me think of your hands.”

Fitz grinned. “Well, that’s because...”

“Yes, yes, I know.” She paused, and he wasn’t sure if the pink tinge to her cheeks was still from physical exertion or a blush. “I can think of more than a few people who would be shocked to know we just did that.”

“If you mention Skye right now, I’m leaving.”

They both laughed, Jemma releasing his hand and swatting his chest. He moved onto his side to better see her, only sort of acknowledging to himself that this was because he wanted to take advantage of the chance to admire her nakedness. Particularly her breasts, of which he had become especially fond in the past week, vividly remembering the way her skin tasted and shifted under his tongue.

“Actually, I was thinking about the Academy.”

“Really? Because more than one person at the Academy asked me if you and I were having competitive sex in the lab after hours, you know.” He chuckled, although even back then the idea of lab sex had made him shiver (even if his interest in Jemma’s involvement hadn’t really occurred to him until years later).

“If you must know, I was thinking about Jeremy.” She returned to staring at the ceiling, avoiding his eyes.

“Jeremy...” Fitz drew the name out, a familiarity hovering around the edges of his subconscious, before suddenly remembering exactly who that was and doing an almost-comical double take. “That physicist bloke?” She nodded. “Your first...”

“Yeah.”

He tried to quash the ember of jealousy that rooted itself in his chest; they were not, after all, actually married, or even in a relationship – no matter what their new nightly activities might suggest. “Good to know I’ve got you thinking about old boyfriends.”

This time, the increased flush on Jemma’s face was wildly apparent, and her hands moved up to encircle her neck, his favorite of her nervous habits. “If you... God, okay, don’t laugh, but I was just thinking that I’d like to send him a recording of this as a sort of instructional video.” She hesitated. “It... with him, it really wasn’t very good.”

Fitz shot up on one elbow, his chest pressing against her now-cool arm as he stared worriedly down at her. “Did he hurt you?” 

Finally, Jemma moved her gaze from the ceiling back to him, eyes widening. “What? Oh, no, Fitz, please.” She rubbed her thumb against his arm, his sudden flare of anger dissipating instantly at her words. “He was just a typical guy, really. Completely ignorant of female anatomy.”

“And I’m not a typical guy, hm?” He felt childish as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but the much ignored, socially incompetent younger Fitz in his head couldn’t help but be reminded of all the times words like “typical” or “normal” had stung when they were applied to everyone but him.

Jemma chuckled, stretching and curving her whole body towards him, reaching up to run her fingers along his jaw. “Oh, Fitz, believe me when I say that _nothing_ about what we just did could be considered typical. And thank God for that.” 

Fitz couldn’t quite keep from grinning as he kissed her, willing time to slow so that they never had to leave this bed, or each other, again. “D’you think our audience got a good show? Audibly, that is.”

She ducked her forehead into the crook of his neck. “Sometimes I can’t believe that the _point_ of this is to be heard...” 

“Well,” Fitz said in a mock serious voice, trailing his fingers along the underside of her arm and reveling in the shiver that caused. “It’s all in the name of justice.”

She threw her head back, laughing full out. “Of course, sex for justice! I should get you that on a t-shirt.”

“I’d wear it around the Playground,” he deadpanned, knowing even as he said that it was a complete lie (he was already dreading having to include the details of his and Jemma’s nightly activities in the inevitable post-mission brief).

To distract them from any further potentially embarrassing thoughts, Fitz pressed a kiss over the center of Jemma’s throat, drawing a sigh from her lips. He shifted over a couple centimeters and brushed his open mouth against her again, his tongue sweeping lightly against her salty skin. Jemma shuddered beneath him, fingers gently grasping his elbow, and murmured: “Oh, _Fitz._ ”

A small surge of blood rushed south, and, although he knew he couldn’t yet, Fitz was already thinking about what they could attempt in round two. He moved down to kiss the dip of her collarbone and, when his hand brushed against her breast, thrilled at the feeling of her nipple tightening at his touch. The analytical part of him wanted to know exactly how many times he could make Jemma come in one night, and he was just about to suggest they begin such an experiment when there was a loud knock at their front door. 

They gave each other a quizzical look, and Fitz shrugged, preparing to roll off the bed in search of his boxers. Jemma halted his progress though, pushing him gently into the mattress as she gathered their sheet around her like a toga. “People tend to be more uncomfortable at the sight of an underdressed woman.” When he frowned, not understanding her point, she rolled her eyes at his slowness. “They’ll be more likely to leave quickly.” Then she was out the door of their bedroom, and Fitz flopped back onto the bed.

Just a week had passed since their first time, but somehow it felt both endless and like yesterday all at once. Although it was probably unrealistic for a married couple that was supposed to have been together for years, they could hardly get enough of each other, including when they were supposed to be doing syndicate work. Offhanded winks or whistles suggested that half the Boarding House’s regulars knew what went on in their bedroom at night, and, despite both Fitz and Jemma’s normal preferred avoidance of such notoriety, this meant that their covers were secure – for the moment.

Their info drop two days ago had gone smoothly, and Nate seemed to be warming up to Fitz, even talking about bringing them along on a job at some point soon. Jemma’s day job – working her way into Georgie’s confidence – was progressing slowly, but progressing nonetheless. Fitz stared up at the ceiling, hands underneath his head, and realized that he was _happy_ – purely, ecstatically happy – for the first time in a very long while.

 Being with Jemma like this, allowing himself to demonstrate how he felt without having to worry about his intentions being mistaken or rejected, was freeing in a way that he could never have predicted. The thought that his life was perfect flitted through his head, and he frowned, remembering suddenly that the “life” he was living right now was one filled with crime and death, and – most importantly – wasn’t real, and that he should really not be thinking about it as “perfect.” 

“For God’s sake, Fitz, did you order post-coital delivery _again_?” Jemma padded into the room with a bag of Chinese takeaway, glaring fondly at him – but Fitz froze, lifting himself slowly off of the bed.

“I didn’t order that, Jemma.” 

Her eyes widened and she lowered the bag to the floor, stepping quickly over to the window as Fitz reached for the floorboard under which they’d hid a few undercover necessities, including a biochem and explosives scanner. The blue read-out blipped slowly for a few moments, and then Fitz sighed, dropping onto the bed. “It’s clean.”

Jemma put a hand to her chest and exhaled, hitching the sheet-toga a little higher up as she went to inspect the bag. Fitz secured the scanner and floorboard, retrieving his boxers from where they’d been tossed at some point a couple hours earlier, and watched Jemma read through the small parcel of papers hidden in a compartment underneath cold lo mein.

“Orders?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, shaking her head as she handed him the papers. It was from Director Coulson (too long and too sensitive for Skye to send via Jemma’s phone), and essentially said that in the month since they had placed the bug outside Charlie’s office, they hadn’t managed to secure any damning evidence that connected the syndicate to Hydra. Hardly any of the data traffic from the Boarding House involved their business activities other than the legal ones, and despite a few false leads the bug had essentially been a bust. Coulson needed them to ingratiate themselves even further to the Wellers to see if they could figure out through other means what went on in Charlie’s office. There were also rumblings about Hydra having a new weapon that they would be unleashing soon, so they should be cautious about poking the bear. As if he needed to tell _them_ that.

Fitz sighed, and traipsed out of the bedroom to their small stove, where he used the pilot light to catch the papers on fire and then drop them into the steel sink. As he watched the flames curl around the browning edges of the message, he turned, hearing Jemma shuffle in behind him. The living room’s heavier curtains were open and the streetlight filtered through the faded gauze, causing her skin and the sheet to radiate in the dark as she passed the window.

“It’s not gonna be easy,” Fitz murmured as she curled an arm around his waist, using the other hand to hold up her toga.

“As if any of this has been?”

He smiled, brushing hair out of her face. “I can think of a few things that weren’t exactly hard...” Jemma giggled, and he could feel his traitorous cheeks flush. “Th-that’s not–”

“I can fix that,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him and wrap her arms around his neck. The sheet fell, pooling around their feet.

 

\------

 

_One Hundred Twenty-Eighth Day_

 

As two people from countries that receive more than their fair share of precipitation could attest, it would be completely ludicrous for SHIELD to have called off a supplies and intel drop because of a small rainstorm – and yet that’s exactly what had happened. They’d been having communications problem with the Playground for the past ten days, which was made even more frustrating by the fact that the Wellers were behaving as if something big was coming. Even Charlie, who was normally so good at keeping a calm façade, had been acting somewhat squirrely in the rec room this week. So, after having driven across the city under the pretense of visiting one of the diners they’d once robbed, and having gone to a lot of trouble to get away from the Boarding House for the day, it was a nasty surprise to find a typed note with the abort code at the pick-up location.

Sighing, Jemma dropped the note into the flowing gutter and pulped it with the heel of her lavender Wellington, water running off the umbrella’s tines onto her jeans. “I suppose we’re back to waiting, then –” she said, turning to see that Fitz was no longer standing beside her. 

Furious and antsy, he’d retreated to a short awning in the deserted alleyway behind them, pacing out his annoyance.

“It’s just bollocks, Jemma,” he bit out as she approached, staying a few feet away and watching him with that so-familiar expression of sadness and patience. “This is the third time they’ve cancelled a drop in a fortnight, but they still expect us to churn out intel without the proper supplies! We cannot do our jobs without the right blasted tools!”

“They’ll get them to us, Fitz, you’ll see.” She reached out towards him, but hesitated when he continued to pace back and forth under the awning. “Hydra’s been acting out again recently, you saw it on the news a couple days ago. They just need time –”

 “Oh yes, let’s just give them some extra time why don’t we, while we spend every bleeding day risking our _lives_ for Coulson’s precious intel.”

“Fitz...”

“It’s like they’ve forgotten that we’re out here, Jemma! Maybe we should just bloody stay here where we’re appreciated.” It escaped his lips before Fitz really had time to think it through, but once it was out there a small, stupid part of him desperately hoped that she’d agree.

Glancing down, Jemma gave him a half-smile, as if he’d been joking – which he probably should have been. “We can’t pretend to be criminals forever, Fitz.”

“Why not?” He tried to suppress the panic in his voice by being angry. The drop for which they’d been waiting would signal the impending end of the mission, and which would, in turn, mean that he and Jemma would have to go back to being as they'd been before. Back to best friends, to lab partners, but not lovers or spouses, and as much as Fitz tried to remember the happiness he’d experienced as the former two he could no longer imagine his life without the latter. “We’re pretty fucking brilliant at it, and the pay’s certainly better.”

Jemma stared at him as if he’d slapped her, pale cheeks flushing starkly in the gray rain. “Don’t... you don’t mean that.” 

“What if I did?” Fitz met her eyes, his heart pounding in his chest and mind consumed with the blind panic that if they left, if they returned to SHIELD, he would lose her.

For what felt like a long time, she didn’t say anything in response, breathing shallowly, and he wished he knew what she was thinking. Somehow, his feelings for her had made it harder for him to predict her thoughts – or maybe he was just more likely to second-guess himself because of it.

“Give me the car keys.” Her voice was flat but calm as she held her hand out into the streaming rain. “Now.”

Thrown off by her calm, almost-disassociated response, Fitz dug around in his pocket and then dropped the keys into her hand. Jemma didn’t say anything as she spun on her heel and strode out of the alleyway, so, face flushed with anxiety and confusion, he followed her, holding his leather jacket over his head.

The car ride was just as silent as the walk to the Aston-Martin, and her only response when he asked where they were going was: “You’ll see.”

Once they’d parked, Fitz barely had time to register the sign as they ran into the squat, stone-paved building, unsuccessfully using his jacket to cover both his and Jemma’s heads from the storm. He could have asked to leave, he guessed, but his worry had tired him out – and he couldn’t bear to start a real fight with her. Not when they had so little time left. Instead, he just shook droplets off the leather of his jacket as they entered the cavernous main hall, a replica brontosaurus skeleton stretching through the hexagonal room and over the wide staircase.

Glancing over to where Jemma was observing his reaction, he thought he knew why she’d brought him here, and he didn’t know what to say. Someone bumped into him, rushing to collect a child or get to the planetarium, and he dropped his eyes from Jemma’s. When he turned back to her, she was holding a hand out. “Come on.” 

Fitz slid his hand into hers, tightly entwining their fingers as she strode forward with a clear destination in mind, trying to remind himself that, once, being Jemma’s friend had been one of his greatest privileges. Falling for her shouldn’t change that.

After a few minutes of hunting, and one quick stop at one of those overly cheerful maps that guided tourists through science museums around the world, she pulled him towards a faded orange, coned space shuttle part and then stopped short.

“An Apollo command module,” Fitz muttered, unable to help himself and not missing the grin on Jemma’s face as he leaned over to the plaque. “Looks like one from before... yeah, Apollo 6, last unmanned mission.”

The large burn scar along the bottom of the cone caught his attention, dark, ruined metal flaring out from an exhaust port, and he had to restrain himself from reaching out to examine the thing. “Y’know,” he said, leaning over to Jemma, “this one actually failed right from the start. Pogo oscillations, ruptured fuel lines, engine shut down, you name it. Never worked right. But it was so useful that they didn’t need a third unmanned flight. What failed was more useful than what worked.”

“You knew that already, without reading through the plaque.”

He shrugged. “I had to check which flight number it was, but once I got that, yeah. Loved reading about the Apollo missions as a kid. Even tried building a small replica of Apollo 13’s engines when I was eleven, until it got too expensive for my mum. Why?”

Jemma pulled him around to face her, clasping his hand to her chest. “Because _of course_ you did, Fitz.” She reached up to cup his cheek with her hand, and he leaned into her, watching a fervent flare of desperation and hope kindle behind her eyes. “Don’t forget who you are. The world in which we’ve been living is deadly, and cruel, and _wrong_ , and it isn’t who we really are. We aren’t real here.”

Fitz inhaled shakily, nodding, and she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him as tightly as she could. He buried his face in her hair, unable to stop himself from thinking: ‘ _But here, you’re in love with me_.’

“Don’t lose yourself,” Jemma whispered fiercely into his ear. “I couldn’t bear it. I need you, Fitz.”

They stood in each other’s arms by the dilapidated shuttle module for a long time, letting annoyed museum-goers peer around them, and Fitz tried to convince himself that he _could_ find a path back to the way things had been before the mission, somehow. Because, eventually, the friendship that had once been his everything would have to be good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [eclecticmuse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticMuse/pseuds/EclecticMuse) did a beautiful illustration for Day Ninety-Nine, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4193685)!


	7. We Got the Fire (We Just Wanna Be)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Y’all are so lucky and you don’t even know it.”
> 
> Jemma glanced over at Fitz. “What do you mean?”
> 
> Georgie shook her head, awe flitting across her features. “The way that boy looks at you... never seen that in my life. No wonder you married him ‘fore you were even twenty.”
> 
> Fitz stilled his hand on Jemma’s back, reminding himself that he had no reason to panic – he was just selling their cover. Still, he didn’t look down until she tilted her head up to meet his gaze, smiling as she brushed her fingers gently under the stubbled curve of his jaw.

_Six Days Before the Mission_

 

Settling himself on the floor of the fake shack and pulling his knees up to his chest, Fitz sighed, wishing that they allowed him to wear his watch during training. It had survived over a year in the field – the thing could take pretty much any damage he threw at it, and wouldn’t actually distract him. He just wanted to know how much bloody time they had left in here.

Today’s session involved FitzSimmons making it through a long obstacle course, and then being trapped in this shack and needing to find a way out with only the odds-and-ends found in the enclosed space. Although he’d been tempted to ask what possible scenario would have them being chased and then end up trapped in a room, he’d just grumbled and gone along with it. Working together, they’d made it through the course in record time, and upon entering the shack were both pleased to determine it would be incredibly simple for Fitz to repurpose a few of the items to create a burst just powerful enough to bust the lock. Having finished assembling the gadget, however, Fitz was not particularly eager to return to the rest of training, still feeling somewhat miffed that he wouldn’t have time to go back to redesigning the stun staff for another day at the earliest. 

“What d’you say to just –” 

“Taking a break? Yes, please,” Simmons sighed, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. “We have some extra time built in from avoiding that fake police officer, anyway.”

Fitz stretched his fingers out in front of himself, watching how his ligaments shifted when he moved his hand. “I know this is all necessary for the mission, but, d’you ever feel like...” 

“It’s also incredibly tedious?” She chuckled at his emphatic nod, straightening her back in a pseudo-yoga pose. “Sometimes.” They allowed the silence to stretch comfortably between them for a couple minutes, until Simmons let out a quick breath and turned to face him. “So, what would you like to do while we hide from training? Twenty questions? Brainstorm miniaturization methods for the stun staff?”

Fitz felt his cheeks flush, and turned away to stare over his knees. Although her second suggestion was actually probably what they should do, he had something else in mind – and it took a lot of energy for him to force it out over his own nerves. “Actually, I thought this might be a good time to... uh, practice. You know.” Glancing back at Simmons, he tried not to cringe at his own awkwardness, hoping with everything that was holy that she understood without needing him to explain it.

They’d kissed a few times since that first snog in the lab, and despite Fitz’s own guilt about the fact that he was enjoying it far more than he had any right to... he couldn’t quite stop himself from wanting to do it again. And again. And again. (He reasoned with himself that the more he got used to kissing Simmons before they left, the better he’d be able to keep his feelings in check during the mission – even if he didn’t quite believe that himself.) 

Simmons let out a burst of laughter that she quickly suppressed, a smile lingering around her mouth. “I feel like we’ve suddenly stepped into a movie – the two heroes find themselves trapped in a life or death situation and their latent feelings bubble to the surface.” She made her voice deeper, putting on her truly terrible American accent to imitate that one announcer who seemed to make every single movie trailer. 

He knew that she was expecting him to laugh, but her comment about “latent feelings” struck rather too close to home, so he gave an exaggerated shrug and turned his gaze down to where he was tracing the hem of his black training trousers. “Hey, the practicing was your idea, it’s not as if it’s required. Just trying to help you out.” The petulance behind his voice actually did make him cringe this time, and he made a quick, annoyed exhale. Sometimes his own prickliness made him just as uncomfortable as it did other people, but he never quite knew how to stop it before it happened. 

His peripheral vision caught movement to his left, but before he could look, Simmons’ hand was cool and soft against his cheek, turning his head towards her. Within moments and without further preamble, she pressed her lips against his, making warmth spread in Fitz’s chest. She’d shifted onto her knees so she was leaning slightly over where he sat, and even when he straightened up to better reach her she towered over him. This had never happened in the other practice sessions they’d had since her initial suggestion, and Fitz found that he really rather liked it, letting her take the lead. Not that there wasn’t something to be said for the way she had to reach up to him when standing – that made his brain fog up in an entirely different kind of way, particularly because it inevitably resulted in more of her pressing against him. But here, her hands tilting his head this way and that, lips gliding softly over his as if she was testing his interest and sensitivity, made him feel like an experiment she was mapping out, and his skin tingled under her touch.

When he reached up to smooth his fingers down the side of her neck, she leaned further down, surprising him by catching his bottom lip between her teeth and then sliding her tongue over the sting. Maybe it was the perceived intimacy of the locked shack, or that she’d initiated this kiss, but a groan reverberated in his chest before he could stop it. The part of him that was so very careful not to reveal his new, non-platonic feelings for Simmons immediately froze, wanting to unlock the shack straight away and then hide from her – or from his own self-loathing. 

But then a small whimper caught in Simmons’ throat as her tongue skimmed across his, and Fitz realized that she might be enjoying this. Kissing, after all, was not necessarily connected to one’s feelings, and maybe if he could make it good for her she wouldn’t mind having to do this with him repeatedly over the next few months. So Fitz slanted her mouth further open, abandoning the previously light teasing for deeper, headier kisses, enjoying the feeling of her fingers going slack against his neck in surprise before clinging to him just a little more tightly. 

Without warning, the door to the shack slammed open and FitzSimmons leapt apart, staring up at the unceasingly stern face of Melinda May. Not missing a beat, Simmons smiled up at their training supervisor, pressing a hand to her chest as if to physically tamp down her own surprise. Her face was flushed, but the steadiness of her voice made him assume that this was from the suddenness of May’s appearance, and certainly not from either his kisses or being embarrassed.

“Agent May – we completed the task early, so we decided to work on... well, other aspects of our undercover identities.” Simmons stood up, brushing off her exercise trousers, and Fitz followed, trying to remind himself that _she_ had no reason to be embarrassed about kissing him. His own, ill-conceived feelings were the only thing making him want to excuse away their behavior, after all, so he tried to look as unaffected as Simmons (although he still couldn’t quite will away the flush that hung about the back of his neck).

May raised an eyebrow and glanced at the stopwatch in her hand. “Your time is shot – you need to do the course again.” Before striding out, she gave them both a critical look. “Next time something’s too easy, see it through before moving on. You’ve got two minutes before I start the new run through.” 

She disappeared, leaving the door open, and Fitz shook his head. “Figures,” he muttered, rolling up the stretchy material of his sleeves. “We ace the course and _still_ have to do the damn thing again.”

Simmons laughed, squeezing his shoulders as she followed May out the door. “Well, practice makes perfect, Dr. Fitzy,” she teased, and he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the brighter-than-usual flush of her lips as she smiled. Fitz shook his head before going after her, counting down the hours until he could take a long, cold shower.

 

\------

 

 _Eighty-Sixth Day_ (Part 4)

 

Something about the way Jemma’s fingers clutched at his arm or the tremors that ran through her entire body when he glided his lips along the satin-smooth skin above her hip made Fitz’s nerves drop away, moving into a familiar (if somewhat rusty) routine. Jemma, on the other hand, seemed to be getting more nervous the further down he shifted along her body, at complete odds with the way her hips stuttered upwards whenever he moved his fingers, sliding gently over where she was already wet and wanting. 

Every time she shifted beneath him, he had to remind himself that this was real – that he was here and this was Jemma and, even though this was technically a part of their jobs, she was responding this way to him. To _him_. He had been denying that he’d been dreaming of nights like this for months, but now that it was happening it seemed completely surreal, and he never wanted it to end. 

“A-are you sure this is a good idea?” She moved a hand from the sheet to tangle in his hair, and he grinned against her, pressing feathery kisses to the upper seam of her thigh.

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

“I mean, isn’t this really something of a – _oh_ – s-second time activity?”

“Not in my book.”

“I’m just not sure... most men don’t tend to _like_...”

He sighed, lifting his head up but keeping his fingers moving, slowly, teasingly. Her face was flushed, head thrown back and chest moving sharply with each breath, and if he hadn’t become so enamored of the taste of her skin and the sounds she was making he would have seriously considered going straight for the condoms. “Jemma, I suggested it, yeah?”

“Yess- _ah_ -yes. You did.” Her hand slid down to his cheek as she lifted her head up, trying to maintain eye contact as he used his thumb to circle that one place she so clearly wanted him to touch.

The intensity of her gaze made Fitz swallow, his arousal briefly taking a backseat to the surge of affection that pushed out from his chest and made his whole body tingle. This was how he could show her what she meant to him, how he could worship her without rejection, and although logically he knew that sex was not love, sometimes it felt an awful lot like the same thing. Especially when you were too paralyzed by fear to actually find the words for what you felt. 

“And isn’t the point of this to be as loud as possible?” 

“Yes...” Jemma’s mouth dropped open in a silent gasp as he gradually curled one finger into her, waiting for her pleased hum before he kept moving inwards, kissing further along the leg she had bent above his shoulder.

“This is the best way to do that for you.” His breath fanned against her skin, causing goosebumps to shiver up where he slid his mouth. 

She shook her head clear, pausing before remembering what she’d wanted to say. “But what about you?”

“Um.” Fitz wasn’t sure how to say that he was trying to delay that as long as possible, somehow feeling that particularly intimate act far more nerve-wracking than stroking and licking her into oblivion. “I... we can get to that. Later. After. Besides, I’m good at this.” 

“Oh _really_?” Her voice bubbled with mirth but hitched as he withdrew his finger to make a slow pass up along her inner folds, her entire body shuddering under him, and then returned to stroke within her in earnest. “And h- _how_ do you know that?”

“I’m neither blind nor deaf, Jemma, I can tell when a woman’s having a really bloody good orgasm.” After a few seconds of silence, during which she dropped her head back onto the pillow, he sighed, face hovering just above the apex of her thighs. “Alright, out with it, I know you want to argue with me.”

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, he darted out his tongue and licked along the most sensitive skin just above her entrance, her hips twitching up instinctively to bring him closer to the small bundle of nerves that was awaiting his attention. “N-no- _oh_ , no, I don’t– _ah_ , want to argue...” 

Unable to help himself, he chuckled against her, noting how her muscles clenched around his finger as he did so, and lifted his head up to raise an eyebrow. “You just did.” In return, she gave him a quick slap on the back of his head, barely moving her hand far enough away to untangle her fingers from his hair. “OW. What was that for?”

 “For laughing.” 

“Hmmm. Seemed to me that you rather liked the laughing...”

“You’re such an arse, Fi–” He returned his mouth to her slick warmth, laving small circles upwards and immediately stopping her words. Her fingers flexed into his hair and, finally, he reached her clit, using quick, teasing licks to make her tremble. _“Ohhh_ , oh _God_ ,” she breathed, and when he hummed her back arched sharply off the bed. “ _Fitz_ , yes –”

The longer his tongue massaged her just there, the warmer her skin became, and Jemma started making small, whimpering gasps as the finger he was still sliding inside her started to feel her inner walls flutter in a telltale sign that she was getting close. She turned her head sharply into the pillow, panting into the cotton, partially muffling the noises of pleasure escaping her throat, and he couldn’t help but feel very smug indeed. So much for her insulting him – even jokingly. Fitz removed his mouth then, watching her hips unconsciously shift up in the direction he’d gone. “You were saying?” 

Jemma let out an instinctive, high-pitched noise of disappointment before she realized what was going on, glanced down to see his grin, and groaned in annoyance, dropping back onto the bed. Unthreading her fingers from his hair, she slid her hand down to his shoulder, holding on tightly – as if he would ever seriously consider moving away when he was so close to watching her come apart underneath him. “Shut up.”

“With pleasure.” Although he returned his tongue to laving the most sensitive part of her, he avoided her clit, amused by the way she was torn between releasing small whimpers of appreciation and squirming in frustration that he’d brought her so close and then stopped. As he alternated between stroking with the flat of his tongue and giving small, quicker licks, Jemma’s hips started to roll rhythmically up to meet his mouth. She slid both hands down to clasp the bed sheets, as if trying to stop herself from moving but finding that she couldn’t.

“Ohhh, God, y-you –” Her breath hitched as his finger passed over that particularly sensitive spot within her at the same time that he circled her clit with his tongue. “You r-really _are_ goo-ood.” Rather than respond and halt his new favorite pastime, Fitz just hummed in agreement, causing a new shudder to pass through her whole body. To his surprise, she lifted herself up on her elbows, presumably to get a better view of him between her legs, her limbs quivering from the pleasure he was coaxing out of her. He flicked his eyes upwards to see her gazing down at him, wetting her lips as she tried to force breath into her lungs in between another moan. “But you can do b-better.”

Fitz smiled at her new strategy – goad him into being competitive to get what she wanted. It was too obvious, almost, but with her staring down at him so wildly, lower lip pulled between her teeth so tightly that pink had flushed white, he couldn’t deny her what she wanted. As if he would ever deny her anything she asked of him, he thought to himself as he finally returned his mouth to the one place she wanted, sucking gently at the swollen nub and maintaining eye contact. Her mouth dropping open, Jemma let out a sustained, keening moan so loud it almost surprised him, and her hips twitched forward. She started pressing herself up against his tongue rhythmically, desperate for release, and Fitz was sure he’d never experienced anything so erotic in his entire life. 

Jemma, his Jemma, his bossy, certified genius, “good girl” lab partner, was losing control because of him, because of his hands and his tongue, was almost begging him to take her higher. Wanting to give that to her, to give her everything, everything he could, Fitz slid a second finger inside and redoubled his efforts with his tongue, sliding it steadily against her center, feeling tremors spiral rapidly outwards through her entire body. When he hummed again, all of her muscles tensed and, as she came, she cried out something that sounded a lot like his name. He kept stroking his tongue against her until he felt the shudders of her climax begin to fade, muscles relaxing gradually to lower her back to the mattress and moans fading into sighs. Eventually, he removed his hand from within her to wipe his mouth and then smooth his fingers around one hip, petting gently at the soft, sweaty skin there, waiting for her to return to him.

After a moment, she blinked her eyes open, staring dazedly at where he was leaning his chin on the knee she’d unconsciously brought up in the midst of her orgasm. “So,” he said, unsuccessfully suppressing a grin. “Time for the result. Good idea, or no?”

Jemma gazed back at him, breath still coming in sharp gasps as her heart rate returned to normal. “Good idea, yes, but you’re still a prat.” 

Fitz dropped his mouth open in mock-hurt. “You’d call your husband a prat?”

Hooking an arm around his neck, she pulled him forward for a messy, open-mouthed kiss, bringing him with her as she lay back onto the bed. He made a soft grunt of surprise against her lips but eagerly followed her down, one hand coming up to cradle her head as the other braced against the mattress, keeping himself just above her body as it still shivered in the aftermath.

“Yes. Over and over again.” Jemma spoke against his mouth, eyes still half-lidded in desire but now with a spark of familiar mirth hovering underneath. She lifted one hand to trace the curve of his lips, staring up with a tinge of curiosity he couldn’t quite place, and then pulled him further down so that she could reach his jaw, nipping lightly before gliding over his skin with her tongue, making him shiver in return. Fitz felt his own arousal slide against her thigh, groaning at even that slight friction, and wondered if she’d almost forgotten that they were supposed to be playing roles, too.

 

\------

 

 _Last Day of the Mission – One Hundred Forty-First Day_ (Part 3)

 

"I don't want to go back, Jemma," Fitz whispered. Her eyes widened, and she dropped the curtain, turning fully towards him but leaving her wrist in his grasp. “Not to the way things were before.” He inhaled sharply and dropped his head down. “I mean, I miss the science, and the team, and I miss my clothes.” Fitz pulled lightly at the zipper of his leather jacket, worn and open over a wrinkled button-down shirt. “Cannot wait to get out of this thing.”

“You know I like that jacket,” she said quietly, her grin disappearing in a quick flare. 

An awkward laugh burst out of him, and a car drove by on the street below. Whether it was their marks or just a passerby, he didn’t know, but he felt time clawing at the back of his neck. “But – I can’t lose you. Us.” Fitz could hear her breathing in the silence, and dared a look up, finding wetness in her eyes where he had expected anger or disappointment. “I haven’t been pretending, Jemma. Not for a long time.” 

Without warning, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and shoulders where he sat, and he pressed his cheek against her shirt-covered stomach, unsure of what this meant but not willing to move to find out. 

“I know.”

More than almost anything else, that was not what he had been expecting. “You know what?”

Jemma threaded her fingers through his hair, gently pulling his head back so he could peer up at her but leaving his arms around her waist. “I _know_ ,” she said again. “I overheard you talking to Skye.” His stomach clenched tight, but before he could move away from her, face flushed in shame and embarrassment, she spoke again. “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me yourself.” 

“You...”

“I don’t want to lose us either, but I didn’t know what to say, with the mission....” Jemma smiled down at him, eyes still teary but with a distinct fondness that completely wiped any thoughts of the operation from Fitz’s mind. “I just can _not_ believe you waited until absolutely the most dangerous day of the mission to tell me. Idiot.”

He shot upwards, out of the chair, his suddenness making her step unsteadily backwards but his arms keeping her from falling. “You mean it?” His voice was fierce, desperate, and he moved a hand her cheek. “We can stay –” 

“I love you,” Jemma interrupted, leaning up to press her forehead against his. “The real you, engineer-you. In every way.” 

Fitz leaned forward those last few centimeters to kiss her, frantic, as if air was no longer giving him the breath he needed, surprise and relief and joy making him feel like he had stepped into an antigravity chamber. But he couldn’t focus on her lips for more than a few seconds, just long enough for the slide of her tongue against his to make his skin tingle, because he heard footsteps against the wooden stairs outside the bare, ruined apartment in which they were to make their final stand. He allowed himself one last kiss, scraping his teeth against Jemma’s lower lip and causing her to gasp sharply against his mouth, as he raised his pistol towards the door.

When the door burst open, lock shattering into pieces against the rotten boards, Jemma was still holding tightly onto Fitz and they were staring at each other silently, almost daring the intruders to interrupt this moment. Fitz didn’t look away from Jemma’s eyes, already knowing who he would see when he heard the sharp clip of loafers approach behind the booted guards who had preceded him up the stairs. Their bait had worked. 

“We meet at last – the Married Marksmen. Or should I call you Agents Fitz and Simmons, now? It seems so formal. Can you even _be_ Agents of SHIELD anymore, after the things you’ve done?” 

Using his other arm to keep Jemma close, Fitz turned to look over the top of his arm and gun, anger kindling in his chest at the sight of Ian Quinn’s smug grin. “Call us what you will, Quinn. We’re never going to give you what you want.”

 

\------

 

_One Hundred Twenty-Third Day_

 

The sun burnt orange in the encroaching twilight, casting dark, picturesque shadows along Jemma’s face as she leaned against the floor-length window in their bedroom. Her thin cotton robe was pulled loosely closed under her crossed arms, and a slight frown graced her features. When Fitz strode out of the bathroom, having located his wayward boxers, he watched her for a few, long moments from the doorway. It seemed suddenly unfair that the rest of the world didn’t have the privilege of knowing her as he had, hadn’t heard her speak at length about the various applications of dendrotoxins and then seen her as she was right now, quietly breathtaking, worthy of too many film rolls to count. Somehow the knowledge that she could dissect any argument or solve almost any scientific quandary whenever she chose made her peacefulness more pronounced, as if she was constantly on the brink of brilliance, and Fitz felt like the luckiest man alive.

“Thinking about the orders?” His voice was quiet, asking without really needing an answer. She turned, noticing his return for the first time, and reached a hand towards him. He padded over to the window and wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her relax back into him as he laid his chin on the top of her head. “Cold?”

Jemma hummed in response, and released a small sigh. “I don’t like it, Fitz. After all this time, working _so_ hard to get in –” 

“They want us to destroy everything we’ve built. Yeah.” The cold of her bare skin seeped into his chest and up along his spine as he remembered that the orders they’d received this afternoon signaled the end of the mission. And with it, the end of his and Jemma’s pretend marriage. They’d spent the late afternoon in each others’ arms and he’d forgotten for a while, but even hugging her more tightly against himself didn’t quite abate the panic that was beginning to set in.

“I’m sure Trip’s intel is solid, but... to change our mission objective so suddenly...”

“The idea that we’re their best shot at luring Quinn out along with this weapon seems more than a little farfetched.”

She exhaled slowly and turned her head to rest her cheek against his shoulder. “We have to try to trust that Coulson knows what he’s doing.”

 _I love you. I love you and I cannot imagine ever_ not _loving you. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t let this end._ Fitz sucked in a sharp breath, knowing that now was it, now was the time to just tell her everything, finding that he was blindingly terrified but needing to force it out of himself before it was too late. 

As he opened his mouth, she spoke again, driving the willpower flatly out of him. “It isn’t always easy to follow orders.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

Maybe if he clung to her tightly enough, or wished for it hard enough, SHIELD and Hydra would both disappear and he could stay in this apartment with Jemma for the rest of his life, safe and alone and together. They stood at the window for a long time, thinking, peacefully breathing in tandem, the only noise coming from the occasional car passing by in the street.

A loud knock came from the front door, startling them both out of their reverie, and with it Georgie’s voice calling to be let in. As Fitz hunted for a t-shirt, Jemma grabbed her phone and typed quickly, smiling as she glanced back at him. “Here we go.”

By the time he located a shirt, Jemma had the front door open and was chatting amicably with Georgie, who appeared worn out despite the evening’s early hour. They turned when he traipsed down the stairs, and Jemma called up to him. “Darling, could you please get that box Shawn gave us last week? The one from the pharmacy. Charlie needs it tonight.”

Although they’d been told not to look inside the box, which was hidden in the back of their pitifully bare pantry for safekeeping, Fitz and Jemma had used their scanner to determine that it was filled with prescription pills most likely destined for the black market. The fact that they couldn’t remove the dangerous pharmaceuticals from play was one of the more frustrating aspects of maintaining their covers; the best they could do was relay the source information to SHIELD and hope that this might help local law enforcement hinder the illegal trade.

Fitz struggled to maneuver the large box through the narrow hallway, unnoticed by Georgie and Jemma as they continued talking.

“Are you sure there’s nothin’ wrong with your phone?”

“No, really, it just does that sometimes –”

“It looked like green writing –”

“I know, isn’t it bizarre? I really should get a new one, bloody thing’s on its last legs.” As Fitz lowered the box next to her, Jemma turned away from Georgie and smiled so that only he could see her face, effectively hiding her nerves from their visitor. “Thank you, darling,” she murmured, pressing a hand against his chest and giving him a brief kiss.

Fitz watched Jemma for a moment after she shifted her attention away, smoothing his hand down the back of her robe and thinking vaguely that he was a terrible sap about her but that he couldn’t stop himself. 

“D’you need help carrying that to your car, Georgie?” 

The taller woman crooked an eyebrow at his offer and suppressed a grin. “Naw thanks, I’ve got it.” She tugged a long strand of hair over her shoulder and tilted her head as she stared at Fitz and Jemma. “Y’all are so lucky and you don’t even know it.”

Jemma glanced over at him. “What do you mean?”

Georgie shook her head, awe flitting across her features. “The way that boy looks at you... never seen that in my life. No wonder you married him ‘fore you were even twenty.”

Fitz stilled his hand on Jemma’s back, reminding himself that he had no reason to panic – he was just selling their cover. Still, he didn’t look down until she tilted her head up to meet his gaze, smiling as she brushed her fingers gently under the stubbled curve of his jaw. “But you have Shawn...”

“Oh, we love each other alright, but we didn’t meet ‘til I was almost thirty. You get to spend your whole life with someone who worships the ground under your feet, and that’s a rare thing.”

As Fitz tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d like nothing more than to spend every day doing just that – and could not – Georgie hefted up the box to her shoulder and gave them a curt wave. Jemma bid her goodnight, shut the door, and then leaned against it, staring pensively at Fitz. Sometimes it felt like she had extrasensory powers, even if he knew that was completely impossible (as far as current scientific advancements had determined).

After a moment, though, she exhaled with a small grin. “That went well. A good start to our new role as a very elaborate form of bait.” He nodded, and moved to collect the Chinese takeaway trash left over from SHIELD’s instruction drop; she followed him, making a face at the first container she picked up. “We must tell Skye to stop ordering sweet and sour chicken. It’s absolutely revolting.”

Grabbing a larger trash bag, Fitz shrugged. “I don’t mind it.”

“You’d eat horsemeat if they covered it in gravy and put it in front of you.” 

“I’ve had horsemeat. Bit stringy.” Somewhere behind him, Jemma made an exaggerated gagging sound, and he laughed, dumping the last container into his bag and striding over to her.

She made a face as he approached, holding out her trash for him to collect. “You’re disgusting.” 

“That’s not what you thought earlier,” he said, raising an eyebrow and watching pink bloom faintly on her cheeks. 

“Being hot and disgusting are not mutually exclusive.”

“Oh, _hot_ , that’s what you were saying. I had some trouble understanding you –”

“Shut up –”

“– Through the very loud moaning and all.”

“You’re one to talk.” 

“Maybe not, but at least I’m not having really rather inventive sex with someone I also find disgusting.” She laughed then, and he grinned, lifting the plastic bag over his shoulder and moving to take it outside. 

“You are completely ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, but you like it,” Fitz tossed back, letting the screen door creak slowly closed behind him. 

He wasn’t sure, because the door’s hinges were in serious need of oil, but he thought he heard Jemma whisper behind him, her voice fading in something almost like sadness. “Yes, I do.”

 

\------

 

_Five Days Before Departure_

 

After a particularly strenuous training session with Trip, Fitz had only managed to make it to one of the Playground’s smaller common rooms before giving up and lying on the floor, promising himself that he’d move once he could feel anything below his knees. In a pathetic attempt to avoid anyone seeing and mocking him, he’d chosen to lie behind one of the sofas – although he shortly regretted that decision, as two people entered the room and he suddenly found himself eavesdropping in a way that he had absolutely not intended.

“It’s totally understandable that you’d be worried –”

“I’m not worried about Fitz, Skye. I’m worried in general.” Simmons sounded tired, as if she was trying to end a conversation she hadn’t meant to begin. Someone filled the electric kettle with water, meaning that Fitz was stuck with them in the room until the water had boiled – mostly because the idea of popping out from behind the sofa at this point was far too embarrassing for him to even consider.

“I’m just saying, I don’t think you have to worry about Fitz too much. Not for the job stuff, anyway – I don’t want to know what you’re doing about the married stuff.”

“Good, because I’m not going to tell you. And, what do you mean by that? About Fitz.”

There’s a long pause, the low crinkling of a condiment or sugar packet just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the electric kettle. “I... you remember the train, where you were an idiot and held onto that guy with the grenade?”

“It was perfectly harmless...” 

“You didn’t know that. _We_ didn’t know that, at first. Anyway, when we locked up the guy, Fitz shot him point-blank with the Night-Night Gun –”

“ICER.”

“Whatever, yeah, with the ICER. Twice. And said it was for you.”

“I... I’m not sure how that’s relevant to the conversation, Skye.” 

“I dunno, Simmons, there was something about the _way_ he said it. Totally calm. I’ve never heard him like that, it was... unnerving. And the look in his eyes when he hears other people talk about Ward...” The kettle popped, and one of them moved to make their tea. “You know he bottles everything up, no matter how much he says he doesn’t –” 

“I think some of us could do with a little extra bottling up, if you asked me.”

Skye ignored her, barreling on as if this was something she’d been worrying about for a long time and was only now getting to discuss. “And sometimes I feel like he’s got these things that he hides from all of us, a darkness, or something, like he’s afraid –”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Skye. Fitz has been my best friend for nearly a full decade. I think I’d have noticed a ‘darkness,’ whatever _that_ is supposed to mean, before now.” Someone, presumably Simmons, was stirring her tea far too quickly, and the sharp clip of her voice did a poor job of disguising how much this conversation was disconcerting her.  

“But before a couple months ago, he’d never been almost-murdered by someone he’d thought was a friend. That’d change anyone. I know it changed me.” The door of the common room swung shut behind them, and Fitz found himself alone once again.

He stared up at the painted-concrete ceiling, trying not to let his vision blur out, thinking, oddly enough, not about the friend who had betrayed them but about the man he’d shot to save May in the basement of the Hub. A smattering of nightmares had followed his and Simmons’ day in the pod, floating at the ocean’s surface with only a day’s worth of food and water to sustain them until they were rescued. But the image of the man Fitz had shot never really left his dreams, often expressed only by the faint smell of gunpowder and sweat or the sting of the heated metal as he clumsily threw the gun away from himself. Regret wasn’t quite the word he’d use to describe how he felt about his actions, but sometimes he wished he’d been rather less good of a shot.

 

\------

 

 _One Hundred-Eleventh Day_ (Part 3)

 

His hand didn’t shake. That’s what Fitz remembered the most clearly right after it happened – that when he lowered the gun, his hand hadn’t shaken at all.

Nate was in charge of distracting the rival gangsters who had Ethan and two of his men trapped in the warehouse while Fitz and Jemma used the Mouse Hole to get them out the back. The plan had worked, until something happened (Nate stopped communicating, or their original escape was blocked, or the stars were out of alignment – no one other than Nate would ever know for certain) and the other armed criminals reappeared along the wall where they were escaping.

A low-grade smoke bomb went off, and Jemma was somewhere ahead of Fitz, trying to collect the lost Mouse Hole, and when a gust of spring wind blew the smoke away a man was standing with a gun pointed at Jemma’s head, pulling back the hammer. Fitz fired one shot into the center of his spine, and then a second into the back of his head, the man’s chambered round shattering the concrete at her feet. He stood there, stock still, breath fogging up the arm of his leather jacket, and watched himself transform from her best friend into a murderer in Jemma’s eyes. 

She crouched over the man’s body, reaching out instinctively to check his pulse but halting herself when she saw the blood seeping through his hair and down his cheeks. The way she cringed at the death, ducking her head slightly to the left, made Fitz more nauseous than he did actually shooting the gun. When she looked around for him, he turned his head, pretending to be keeping watch for other assailants. Her voice broke when she called his name and he turned to her, lowering his weapon, terrified at hearing the condemnation he was sure was coming. But instead Jemma ran to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“I killed a man, Jemma,” he said into her smoke-scented hair, pressing her tightly to him with the hand he wasn’t using to hold his gun at the ready. Once the words were out of his mouth, he didn’t know why he’d said them – that wasn’t a reaction to her thanks.

Jemma pulled away and cupped his chin in her hands. “You saved my life,” she said, eyes fierce. “You saved my life, and it’s done now.”

Ethan ran out of the warehouse then, ordering everyone to fall back to the cars, so Jemma grabbed Fitz’s hand and ran. All the way back to their new apartment, sitting silently in the back of Nate’s rusted Buick, Fitz replayed those fifteen seconds in his head, acting as his own devil’s advocate, torturing himself with all the ways it could have turned out differently. But, no matter what he tried to get himself to believe, he wanted to feel awful and yet didn’t. Somehow along the way this one human life, Jemma’s life, had become more valuable to him than almost all the others on the planet, and no matter how many ways he tried to reason with himself that it was _wrong_ he found he couldn’t change his mind. That man had intended to kill Jemma, and so his life was forfeit. _But since when does intent deserve irreversible punishment_? 

Back in the new apartment that had seemed so bright with happiness and desire only a few hours before, Fitz headed straight for the master bathroom upstairs, occupied along one entire side with two couple’s sinks and an extensive countertop. He pulled off his jacket and tie, dumping them alongside the sinks, and rolled up his sleeves. In the corner of his eye, he saw Jemma lean against the doorframe, hands twisting in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she burst out, stepping hesitantly towards him. “I mean, I can’t ever really be _sorry_ , per se, because I am absolutely terrified of dying, as any sane person would be, but I’m sorry –”

“Stop, Jemma.” He held a hand out and she quieted, wide, brown eyes taking in his every move. Something needed to be said; he needed an explanation, to find the words to disagree without scaring her, to break the aching silence somehow. “My hands were steady.” That wasn’t really what he’d meant to say and he frowned.

Jemma just stared back at him and he exhaled in frustration, running his hand through his hair and abruptly remembering why he’d come in here in the first place. Fitz could feel her eyes on him as he splashed water on his face, knew that she wanted to ask if he was okay or what he meant but not wanting to make him clam up. After scrubbing his skin dry with the washcloth, he stared at himself in the mirror, observing the calm in his own reflection and the lapis-like hardness of his irises. His pulse was still racing, but his mind was clear.

“He was going to shoot you, Jemma.” She took a step towards him, hesitating when she saw the look he gave her as he supported himself with both arms on the countertop by the sink. “My hands were steady. I don’t regret what I did. Not at all.”

Unable to help herself, Jemma closed the distance between them, putting a hand over his on the cool porcelain. “I just meant that I’m sorry you had to.”

“I’m not.” Fitz was whispering now, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. “I’m not sorry. For you, Jemma, to protect you... I’d do it again. I’d do anything.”

Jemma opened her mouth to speak, but Fitz moved to kiss her before she could, sliding his tongue into her mouth to stop her words, terrified that she was going to tell him that killing was wrong no matter the motive. He wanted to agree, he used to, but now – Jemma was more important to him than anything, even his morals, or even hers. After he’d pulled the trigger and watched the man fall, instantly boneless as his life dissipated, the realization that Fitz _believed_ this man deserved to die had shocked him more than actually shooting the gun.

When he pulled away from her lips, he felt wetness on his cheeks and registered that they were his tears. The part of him that hated his instinct to cry reared up, but suddenly he was too tired to be angry with himself. Jemma was alive and here with him, and killing some criminal he didn’t know had made it so – he suspected that he would sleep fine. 

She raised a hand to his face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone, starting to speak once, twice, and then giving up. Instead, Jemma leaned up and kissed him again, and Fitz let her, dimly noting that she’d angled them so she was leaning against their new counter. Time passed but he didn’t know how long it had been until his worry faded, and he was able to focus on her warmth and her existence; she was here, and that was all that mattered. Finally, sense returned to him, and he noted where her hands were wandering and froze, jaw clenching.

“You don’t – I don’t want pity, Jemma, that’s not –”

“It’s not _pity_ , Fitz –” She made a noise of frustration in the back of her throat, giving her head a brief shake before returning her eyes to his. “You said you... Just, let me show you...”

Jemma kept eye contact as she pulled his hips against her, and Fitz inhaled sharply, not completely understanding but also not able to make himself move. When she returned her lips to his, he kept his eyes open, watching her, his heart racing again but no longer because of fear or apprehension. She kept her gaze on his, and something about feeling the slide of her tongue against his own as he stared into the golden-brown depths of her eyes made it feel perilously intimate, as if she’d be able to see right through his pain and guilt to the way he truly felt about her. The faint smell of smoke and lavender lingered over her skin and he held her as tightly as he could because she was here and alive and he’d done that and he could never regret it, not for a second, for a world without Jemma was a world wasted.

Somehow, within a flurry of hands and sighs and while he was distracted by the sweat beading in the hollow of her throat, Jemma made her way onto the counter and they both shed their jeans and pants, and just, _just_ as he hovered at her entrance Fitz stopped, a thought halting him. 

“But we – I’m not wear–”

“I have one,” Jemma breathed, shirtless but still wearing a periwinkle bra, and his gaze dropped to her breasts as they rose and fell. “In a minute. Now, please, Fitz –” 

His name was a whimper on her lips, high-pitched and breathy, and he could just barely feel her shift against him, searching for that contact and release. That sound, her half-lidded eyes fixed on his, finally drove thought out of his mind and he pushed inside her with a gasp, dropping his head to her shoulder. His nerve endings were on fire, trembling, and he could feel every centimeter of her tightening around him, like nothing he’d ever felt before, no barriers between them other than the truth.

As he started their rhythm, her hips rocking forward to rejoin with his, the slide of her heat directly around his cock made his breath hitch at every thrust, but he held back so that he could make this last as long as possible. The scientist within him wondered, then, how it was different for her. If there was something quantifiable or if it was his mind creating more things for him to love about her. If she could tell from the way he held her or whispered her name that he wanted to spend the rest of his life showing her how much more she was worth than anyone else.

He glided his lips over her pulse point, laving her skin with his teeth and tongue as he shifted her back slightly to lean against his arm. The angle change coupled with firmer, faster strokes elicited a sharp, breathy moan from Jemma, and she wrapped a leg more tightly around his waist to secure the new position. With her weight supported in one arm, he reached between them with the other to find her clit, groaning when her muscles contracted around him in response. As he felt her nails dig into his hips and watched her panting grow faster, beginning that arc into bliss, Fitz kissed Jemma, trying so hard to use his actions to say what he didn’t know how. To him, she _was_ everything, and not even criminals, Hydra, or SHIELD could chase that away.


	8. Nothing to Lose (Fire Away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Man, it’s so good to hear your voice, Fitz, you have no idea how boring it’s been around here without you two.”
> 
> Hearing Skye at the end of the other line should have made Fitz much happier than it did. On the one hand, he missed his friend and the life he’d led before going undercover, but on the other... it just reminded him that people expected him to be able to go back to the way things were, and he simply couldn’t. He was sure of that now.

_One Hundred Fortieth Day_ (Part 1)

 

Most of the Boarding House regulars were crowded into the rec room tonight, cheering on a tournament between the two best billiards players loudly enough that Fitz could hear the noise all the way down in the back hallway. In stark contrast to the upstairs, the hall in front of Charlie’s office was dark and deserted, which made Fitz’s job as the lookout both easier and more difficult, because if anyone decided to come by here they would see him instantly.

“I was right, someone advised them to go the way of Cybertek – all of their communications with Hydra are in hard copies,” Jemma muttered from inside the office, where she had just managed to crack open the floor-to-ceiling safe. 

“You’re sure you don’t need help?” There was no doubt in Fitz’s mind that she was the best person between them to break into the safe, but he was getting antsy just standing in the doorway with his finger hovering alongside the trigger of his pistol.

“Yes, I’m sure. You need to keep watch.” Papers rustled as she sorted through the safe and put promising-looking records into one of the two duffels they’d brought. The room itself was nothing like they’d expected; rather than a _Godfather_ -esque lair of mahogany and brandy, they’d found a rather sparse, almost-clinical room filled with filing cabinets and weapons-cases, all surrounding a steel table and two matching chairs. They’d decided to only bother with the large safe, making the calculated bet that this would be where Charlie kept his most sensitive records, and they seemed to have been right. She made a brusque _tsk_ as she pulled a file out of the safe. “I knew it.” 

“What?”

“Quinn,” she answered simply, piling the file in with the others. “His name is everywhere.”

“That bastard.”

Before they’d left on the mission, Quinn had been completely off the grid – he’d fled with Hydra’s money shortly after Garrett’s demise, and although SHIELD thought he’d been working with what was left of Hydra’s leadership they couldn’t figure out from where. Six months later, SHIELD may have found out more information, but naturally neither Fitz nor Jemma knew – they couldn’t exactly get intel updates while in deep cover. 

“I find this worrisome, though, Fitz. The most recent files keep going back to something they have in development – that weapon again. I know I don’t have time to read through them now but – it’s everywhere without ever saying what it is.”

“I dunno, Jemma. Hopefully it’s something we’ve seen before...”

“Are you sure about that? Just because we’ve seen it before doesn’t mean we’ll be any better at neutralizing it. And if their opaqueness is anything to go by...”

A door leading to the back entrance swung open, letting in a muted burst of yelling from upstairs as Nate and Ethan stepped into view. Fitz ducked back into the office and slammed the door shut, pressing a small, steel disc into the wood and watching the quick, blue pulses radiate outwards, indicating that the limited force field was now in place.

“Nate and Ethan are here, blocking the back door. We’ve got fifteen seconds, and then we use plan C.”

She tossed him the second bag and they both dumped as many files into their respective duffels as quickly as possible, and, once he’d secured the bag over his shoulder, Fitz heaved a large, metal drawer through the reinforced glass window. Just as Jemma ran over to him, the force field gave in and Nate burst through the door, gun raised and pointing at her. Without thinking, Fitz leapt in front of Jemma, firing two quick shots towards the door, his sudden movement throwing off Nate’s aim as she clambered through the window with her bag. While Nate and Ethan were hiding from his bullets beneath the overturned table, Fitz managed to climb backwards through the window, running rapidly to catch up with Jemma as she sped to their car.

 

\------

 

 _Last Day of the Mission_ (Part 4)

 

Quinn’s smile never wavered as he separated his hands and held them palms up in a mockingly conciliatory gesture. “But I haven’t even asked you for anything yet.” He tilted his head backwards slightly, calling into the hallway. “They’re very presumptive, your friends.” 

“They’re not my friends.” 

Jemma’s fingers contracted, digging sharply into Fitz’s skin through his shirt, and his blood ran cold. They both recognized that voice before the sallow-skinned young man shuffled into the room, back hunched and eyes darting around the empty apartment. Jemma had been right – they knew from experience that this person, now a weapon, was no mere trifle – and their job just got much harder.

“Donnie,” Fitz said, the name escaping his mouth before he could rein it back in.

The young man laughed, a bitter, horrid sound that reminded Fitz of hail scraping against concrete. “No one’s called me that in a long time.”

“What do they call you, then, Donnie?” Jemma’s voice was quiet, and Fitz noted how she repeated the name the boy had evidently forsaken, the name that was part of his other life, before everything went wrong. Before he’d created the storm that had killed his best and only friend.

“Haven’t you heard?” His lips cracked into a depthless smile as he spread his arms out. “I guess they’ve been trying to keep it quiet. We’re not ready for primetime yet, and surprise is the best defense, and all that crap.” Donnie glanced at Quinn, who was watching the proceedings with a smugly impassive expression. “I’m the Icer, now.”

“You still look like Donnie Gill to me,” Fitz answered, forcing down the nausea that old-him would have felt and setting his finger firmly beside the trigger of his pistol. 

Ignoring Fitz, Donnie crouched down and pressed his index finger against the wood, sending a thin vein of ice shooting across the floor to collide with Jemma’s feet. She leapt away, her shoes escaping the ice just in time for it to slide past her and explode against the wall. Keeping his pistol aimed at Donnie and Quinn, Fitz stepped over the ice and shoved Jemma unceremoniously behind him; more surprisingly, she let him, but now was not the time to ask her why.

“I wondered, you know. I wondered if this is what you would be like, without her.” He shuffled a few feet to the side, leering at Jemma as she glared back at him from around Fitz’s arm. 

“Good thing I’ll never have to find out,” Fitz bit out, hand reflexively closing around Jemma’s lower arm behind his back.

“You really are an overconfident little shit,” Quinn broke in, voice even but clearly tired of playing second fiddle in this particular number. 

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you,” Jemma shot back, and Fitz withheld a grin. “What are you even doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be off ruining more lives?”

Quinn tilted his head. “Two SHIELD agents infiltrating the ranks of one of our newest backers? No, no, no, that was just too good to resist. Besides, Donnie needed a real coming out party.” He clapped Donnie on the shoulder and the younger man just stiffened in return, not partaking in the older man’s attempt at camaraderie. “Better for the world to know the kind of weapon Charlie has at his disposal.” 

A guard in full tactical gear, including a black helmet and tinted visor, stepped into the room and let the door swing slowly closed. Quinn turned and listened to the guard’s whispers while Fitz kept his eyes trained on Donnie, whose focus on Jemma hadn’t wavered.

“No, we’re not ready to go ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ on them – who the fuck told you that? And take off that fucking visor.” Never a man who was used to being given orders, and from a subordinate, no less, Quinn planted his hands on his Italian-silk-clad hips.

Fitz tilted his head towards Jemma at those words, and when they heard the door meet the frame, she pulled the spare pistol from the back of his jeans and stepped out from behind him, leveling the barrel at Quinn’s head.

Eyeing their new positions, Quinn huffed in annoyance. “Alright, I’ve had enough. We’re taking you in – sorry, kiddo, you’ll have to wait another couple hours for your new toy.” Donnie finally turned away from Jemma to give Quinn an impatient sneer. “Time to go.”

Fitz stepped closer to Jemma, and whispered, fiercely, “We’re not going anywhere.”

When he looked into her eyes, he saw the façade of Jemma’s cover persona falter for just a second. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head, wondering if he was talking to Quinn or about returning to SHIELD. Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, Fitz took a deep breath and smiled as he let it out, repeating the last part of his mantra in his head. _Love. Love. For love._  

Everything was going to be okay, as long as they were together.

 

\------

 

 _Eighty-Sixth Day_ (Part 5)

 

Later that night, in between the breathy whimpers Jemma made as Fitz laved her nipple with his tongue, he wondered briefly at how she was holding onto her persona so well while they were doing something so intimate. Did she have to remind herself that she was married to Scott Fitzgerald, that she loved and wanted him? For he needed no such reminder, didn't need to pretend, but as ever Fitz was aching to know what Jemma was thinking. Then, as he admired the way the skin of her breast tightened from his ministrations, goosebumps rising under his lips, he heard it, just barely loud enough to be words.

“ _Leo_.”

She’d cut herself off before she finished the second syllable, although he wasn’t sure if it was because she’d caught herself or because he’d removed his mouth from her in his shock. As he stared up at her, her fingers tightened in his curls and she lifted her head to look down at him, pupils blown wide and just barely shining in the streetlights filtered through their gauze curtains.

“What’s wrong?”

His chest tightened; she hadn’t noticed what she’d said, or the way it made a completely different kind of warmth bloom in his stomach. Something in the back of his mind made him want to say something, confess everything he was feeling in this moment, but the rest of him knew that now would be the worst possible time to tell Jemma the truth, no matter what she’d just said. The truth that he couldn’t have imagined that they would ever be here because it was what he’d wanted for almost a year. The truth that this togetherness felt so natural he suspected maybe they’d always been heading for something like this, even if they’d taken a path that he never could have possibly predicted. The truth that he thought he was falling in love with his best friend, and it terrified him.

Instead, he moved up and kissed her, breaths mingling as his hips notched into place between her thighs, his arousal sliding against her, and they both moaned. Her hands clutched at his hips, keeping his sensitive skin pressed against hers, and Fitz’s vision fuzzed out as the friction sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him. His instincts took over, numbing the part of him that was so enamored of her and so very confused, and he pressed back in against Jemma, eliciting another whimper. 

“N-nothing, Jemma. Nothing’s wrong.”

 

\------

 

_One Hundred Thirty-Sixth Day_

 

Summer had descended upon Atlanta in earnest, and the air swam with a stagnant humidity. Fitz’s skin clung uncomfortably to the plastic payphone handle, and he pushed open the booth’s door to let in a modicum of circulation. It was one of the last phone booths of its kind anywhere, let alone in a city as large as this, and it had taken him and Jemma time to find it after finally receiving the supply drop from SHIELD three days prior.

Today’s mission was simply for the two of them to act as suspiciously as possible, so they’d made an appointment for an encrypted phone call with the Playground, and Jemma was circling the block. She was supposed to appear to be keeping watch for surveillance, when in reality she was checking to see if Nate had in fact sent one of his men to follow them. The sight of a clumsy Weller henchman lurking about the nearby streets would mean, ironically, that they were doing their jobs well. 

“Man, it’s so good to hear your voice, Fitz, you have no idea how _boring_ it’s been around here without you two.”

Hearing Skye at the end of the other line should have made Fitz much happier than it did. On the one hand, he missed his friend and the life he’d led before going undercover, but on the other... it just reminded him that people expected him to be able to go back to the way things were, and he simply couldn’t. He was sure of that now. 

“Can you pass a message to Coulson for me?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Shoot,” Skye answered, thrown off by his refusal to acknowledge or return her excitement.

“Tell him I think the plan is bollocks, it’s too dangerous, and that Jemma doesn’t need to and shouldn’t be there.”

A long silence passed through the fuzzy landline, and then Skye cleared her throat. “I, uh... okay. Um, isn’t it dangerous for you, too? Why shouldn’t Simmons be there?”

Fitz closed his eyes, then, and when he spoke it was so quietly he thought that maybe the ancient payphone wouldn’t pick it up. “I have to keep her safe.”

An awkward, incredulous laugh burst out from the plastic receiver. “Fitz, she knows what she’s doing – and you kinda need her for the op. You’ve both been in danger for months, why d’you want to tell Coulson this now?”

“Because now I’m bloody in love with her, Skye, that’s why,” he snapped, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning against the open doorframe of the phone booth. “And I don’t want her to die in a stupid, poorly-planned field op.” 

Something like the sound of a chair creaking as someone sat in it filtered in over the line. “Oh. Wow.” 

“Yeah.” He paused, realizing exactly what he’d just said. “ _Fuck_ , I haven’t admitted it out loud before.” Fitz knocked his head not-so-gently against the metal frame. “Fuck.”

He’d been thinking it for months but never admitting it, and saying it out loud just reminded him that he knew now what it was like to be _allowed_ to be in love with Jemma. Not just to work with her or be with her but to love her in the way that he had wanted for so much longer than he’d ever realized. To have a taste of what married life would be like with Jemma, to fall asleep and wake next to her, to do all those domestic inanities that seemed so much brighter when done _with Jemma_ , had made him the both the happiest man in the world and the most miserable, knowing that sooner or later it would be over. If Leopold Fitz had barely ever liked another person until he met Jemma Simmons, he was damn sure he would never love another. And he was beginning to realize that he would consider doing anything to keep their life here the way it was. 

“Well, they say acceptance is the first step to recovery,” Skye teased weakly. 

“I don’t want to recover,” he bit out, his melancholia flaring back into anger just as rapidly as it had faded. “I just want everything to stay exactly as it is, right now.”

“Except for the whole ‘being a criminal on the run from the law’ thing, right?” Her voice was light, joking, but he didn’t respond, thinking wryly about how everything gets easier with practice. “Right, Fitz?”

“I think that’s a long enough phone call. They’ll have seen me by now.” 

“Wait, Fitz, don’t –” Not giving her a chance to finish, Fitz dropped the phone into its cradle and then squeezed his eyes closed again, putting pressure against them with his fingers. What had compelled him to confess that to Skye was beyond him, but for ill or not it was out there now – and he couldn’t really even deny it to himself anymore after saying the truth out loud, even if he still had no idea what to do about it. He was in love with Jemma Simmons, and the approaching end of their pretend marriage was driving him out of his mind.

“How did it go?” Jemma peeked around the corner of the phone booth, a slight tremor hiding behind her smile. 

Shrugging, Fitz stepped out of the phone booth and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, trying to ameliorate the day’s sticky heat. Before he could give her a real answer though, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his, surprising him. Jemma gave him kiss after kiss after kiss, holding onto his shirt by the lapels and standing on her tiptoes, and Fitz had the brief, idle wish that she would never stop.

 

\------

 

 _Last Day of the Mission_ (Part 5)

 

The room was standing stock still, the masked guard tensed behind Donnie and Quinn, whose eyes were on their two armed opponents. Breaking Jemma’s gaze, Fitz nodded once and pushed her down to a crouch, curling his body over hers as he pressed a button on his watch. The four camouflaged discs in the corners of the room let out strong, blue beams of electricity that met in the middle and shot outward in a flash, stunning anyone within its range. 

As soon as the pulse dissipated – five seconds from trigger to completion, as designed – Fitz lifted his head, loosening his grip around Jemma. Both Donnie and Quinn were out cold; the masked guard dropped back to the floor from where the frame had supported her for those few seconds.

“I can’t see a damn thing from in here,” griped a muffled voice, and the guard removed her helmet, shaking out her sweat-stuck black hair.

Fitz blinked at seeing May’s familiar face emerge, and then leaned over to help Jemma up from the floor. “May! We didn’t realize you’d be –”

“Skye thought it would be a good idea.” Her tone gave nothing away, but Fitz winced, guessing that his friend had gone to May after their last conversation to express her concern about what he’d said. He owed Skye an apology.

Jemma smiled, checking the status of her pistol - well, Fitz's pistol. “Good to see you, Agent May.” 

Never one for pleasantries, May already had her ear pressed against the door. “I think we knocked out all the guards on this floor, but the others will be up here soon. Catch.” She tossed them each a black baton-shaped object and then began placing explosive charges around the edge of the doorframe.

Jemma and Fitz both approached an unconscious man and placed their respective batons on their chests, pressing the top and watching green ropes snake out and coil around the prisoners. The baton itself also provided a limited anti-gravity field, meaning that both men now floated a few centimeters off the floor. As Fitz stared at Donnie’s unconscious face, unable to shake the fear and disgust that had settled low in his stomach at the younger man’s words, Jemma pulled his left hand into hers, rubbing his knuckles soothingly with her thumb. 

Having finished with the explosives, May turned around to grab her helmet and quirked an eyebrow at their entwined hands. Footsteps echoed in the hallway and she secured the helmet over her head before ordering: “Get back.” 

In a few seconds, the explosion had stunned the approaching henchmen, and the three agents were standing in the hallway – prisoners in tow – assessing their escape route. The main staircase was out of the question, but the fire escape was clear. May descended the flaking-green metal stairs first, rifle at attention, followed by Jemma pulling along Quinn and Fitz bringing up the rear with Donnie. The yelling inside the building could be heard but didn’t follow them outside, the chaos too frantic to figure out where the boss and his “weapon” had gone.

Fitz took one look back up as May and Jemma rounded the corner towards the rendezvous location, something tickling at the back of his neck – and then two cold hands shoved him forward, and he narrowly avoided falling. He turned to see Donnie standing behind him, eyes dark and shaggy hair falling forward over a satisfied smirk. Shattered ice crystals were scattered on the concrete surrounding his feet, shimmering in the sunlight; he must have regained consciousness and flash-frozen the ropes binding him, making them easy to break. 

“Don’t do this, Donnie,” Fitz warned, reaching for his pistol in the back of his jeans. But it wasn’t there – since he and Jemma had swapped, he’d been holding the gun when Donnie shoved him and it had gone skittering away over the concrete. Reaching for it had been instinctive, but futile.

Inhaling deeply, Donnie formed a huge sliver of ice out of the air’s summer moisture and then shot it at Fitz, who dodged too slowly. He felt it slice through his side, cutting through his Kevlar like a bullet through water, and collapsed, face screwed up in pain, thinking distantly that he hadn’t expected it to be ice instead of a gun. Pain should singe, not numb. 

As he watched Donnie’s boots approach over the graffiti-washed concrete, Fitz hoped with every fiber of his being that May would find him before Jemma. Willing though he was to die for her, he couldn’t stand the thought of her finding his body.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Fitz forced himself to look up from the ground, clutching his bloody side as tightly as possible to dull the spreading pain. Donnie towered over him, arms held out to the side and fingers tapping the air, as if he was testing the water molecules he would next manipulate.

“You should know what it feels like. To see your best friend die in front of you.” 

“Why,” Fitz spat out, air wheezing out of his chest, “so I can become like you? A total, bloody psychopath?”

Donnie’s mouth just twisted crookedly into a Cheshire grin. “I’m gonna find her, and you won’t be able to save her.”

A shot rung out in the desolate alleyway and Donnie collapsed, small puffs of snow falling from where he’d once held his hands. Gun still raised, Jemma stood at the end of the alley, face distorted in a rare expression of deep hatred.

“I don’t need anyone to save me.” 

She took a few steps forward and shot another round into the back of Donnie’s head; Fitz was relieved to see the distinctive blue-gray sheen of the pellet gun, as opposed to one of the lethal pistols they’d been using for the past six months. The thought that “the Icer” had been knocked out by an ICER popped into Fitz’s head, and, giddy with the adrenaline of being injured, he laughed, choking on the air that wasn’t feeding itself properly into his lungs.

In a millisecond, Jemma realized that Fitz was bleeding and sprinted to him, dropping her ICER to pull up his shirt and inspect the wound. Fitz winced at her prodding but Jemma sighed, leaning her forehead against his and putting a bloody hand on his neck. “You should be fine – it’s just gone cleanly through your side, as long as it missed your intestines, which I can’t tell from out here, but it seems far enough away. We’ll check, of course –”

“I’m sure you will,” Fitz teased weakly, earning him a quick _tsk_.

“–But you should be fine. Just fine.” She inhaled shakily and then yelled for someone to come help them.

Fitz was dimly aware of activity bursting to life at the entrance to the alley, but chose instead to watch Jemma’s face as she pulled off her cardigan to apply pressure to his wound. He thought his mouth formed three words, but he forgot them as soon as he spoke, sliding rapidly into unconsciousness.

 

\------

 

 _One Hundred Fortieth Day_ (Part 2)

 

After speeding away from the Boarding House under the cover of darkness, knowing that they couldn’t go back to their apartment and that renting a motel room could expose them to video surveillance, they drove aimlessly around the outskirts of the city. Fitz was still at the wheel for the moment, although they’d likely switch soon, and his heartbeat was finally returning to normal. Unnervingly, Jemma had been silent the entire time they had been in the car, aside from ascertaining that he had no injuries when they first made their getaway.

“Okay, that was not exactly flawless, but it wasn’t bad, either.” He spoke to fill the silence and calm his anxiety that, for some reason, she hadn’t even _looked_ at him in almost an hour. “We got the intel, left a trail for them, and neither of us are injured. I’d call that a success, yeah?”

“I’m very angry with you right now, Fitz, so I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk.” 

Her words felt like a slap in the face, and he eased off the gas a little in dismay. “What?” 

“You jumped in front of me,” Jemma snapped, her voice brittle as she continued to stare out the windshield. “To take that shot. You jumped _in front_ of me.”

Fitz let his mouth drop open, completely incredulous that _this_ was why she was angry. “Excuse me for trying – and succeeding, might I add – to protect you!”

She turned to him, finally, shifting all the way around so that she could lean one hand against the dashboard. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Fitz! You don’t get to just try to sacrifice yourself and then pretend like it was nothing!” When he nearly let the car drift into another lane because he was staring at her, he made the decision to pull over to the shoulder of the road. The second that the car was stopped, she started pummeling his right arm, not as hard as he knew she could but also not especially gently, either. “You could have died! You could have _died_ and I couldn’t have done anything about it!” 

He grabbed her hands before she could continue to hit him and forced her wrists together, effectively getting her to cease although she struggled indignantly against his hold. “Hey, hey – I’m not dead, though, look, I’m right here,” he said, voice low and as soothing as he could make it, angling his head to try to make eye contact. As he gazed back at her, her breathing gradually slowed, coming back from the brink of hysteria. After a few moments, he loosened his grip on her wrists, hoping that he hadn’t hurt her. “And, Jemma, if you really want to talk about sacrificing yourself for someone else, I have a few examples I could bring up...” 

At that, she yanked her arms away and folded herself fully onto the passenger seat as far from him as she could get, pressing her back against the door and clutching her knees to her chest. “That’s different. I was saving multiple people – yours was just saving me. It isn’t worth it.” 

The sound that escaped Fitz’s mouth then was dark and flat, unable to keep himself from laughing at the very idea that he wouldn’t give everything up for her alone. As if he would even have to think about it. “For whom?”

They stared at each other for many long moments, at a standstill until the ringer on Fitz’s phone made them both flinch. When Fitz pulled it out of his pocket he inhaled, showing the caller ID to Jemma before putting it on speaker. “Hey, Shawn.”

“What the fuck – what the _fuck_ , Fitzgerald?” The other man sounded like he was in a tunnel or a hallway, a crowd of voices echoing underneath his own.

“Whoa, mate, what’re you talking about?”

Fitz tried to infuse his own voice with genuine confusion, but he was still distracted by Jemma’s bizarre reaction to him trying to save her. Her gaze was fixed on the phone screen’s glow, and he would swear tears hovered just at the edges of her eyes. As much as he wanted to promise he wouldn’t do it again, he couldn’t – it would be a complete lie. Although he had been avoiding the discussion of something rather important, he hadn’t yet _lied_ to her, and he didn’t want to start now.

“Georgie said you two were –” Static erupted over the line, suggesting that Shawn was moving as he talked, but Fitz guessed what he was saying until the sound cleared up. “– surgery here and he fucking bled out, wasn’t anything we could fucking do–”

Jemma met Fitz’s eyes briefly as his mouth went dry. “Wait, bled out? As in died? Who?”

“Yeah, Nate’s fucking dead – Charlie’s on a warpath, man, he’s been calling people in some damn high places. The fuck were you doing?”

Fitz’s heart stuttered within his chest and he let his eyes drift to the shadows under the dashboard, trying to remember how to breathe. When he shot at their discoverers back in the office, one of his bullets must have hit Nate. All he could think was that he’d killed another man, a third one. A person could argue that two deaths in a world where aliens once came pouring out of a portal in the sky was not so terrible; killing two people in that kind of world was, maybe, even acceptable, especially in his line of work. But three? That brought his total from “a couple” to “a few,” and what did that make him, really? Certainly not the withdrawn engineer he had once been. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to be that person any more.

Cold spread through his limbs as he thought about what his mum would say, but before he could think anything further someone barreled into him, wrapping her arms fiercely around his neck. “Stop that, Fitz. I know what you’re thinking, and stop it.” Jemma’s voice was firm but whispered, clearly trying to keep his panic from being conveyed over the phone.

“Fitzgerald, you still there?” 

Fitz disentangled himself from Jemma, who continued watching him as carefully as she had been a few minutes ago but with a tinge more sadness and slightly less anger. “Yeah, yeah. I can’t really say anything other than that we’re on the road, getting the fuck out.” He paused and turned his gaze away from Jemma, focusing on the phone. “Look, you and Georgie – you should leave. Tonight. Just go, get away from her family. You’ve told Jemma how much you bloody hate it, being trapped there. I dunno what’s going to happen in the next couple of days, but if you love Georgie, you should just go. Go spend the rest of your life with the woman you love. While you can.” He could feel Jemma’s eyes on him, but he refused to look up, tired of trying to puzzle her out tonight.

Shawn exhaled loudly over the phone, absorbing what (for Fitz) was a very long speech. “Look, man, I like you. You and Harker. I don’t know what your fucking deal is, and there’s no way you’re getting away from him for long but – toss this phone. Charlie can track you with it. That’ll give you a couple days.”

Fitz gave the phone a wry smile; that was, of course, precisely why they still had this phone with them. “Thanks, Shawn. Good luck.”

As soon as he ended the call, Jemma’s hand closed over his wrist. “Fitz–”

“It doesn’t matter, Jemma, he’s de–”

“That’s complete bollocks because it obviously matters to you –”

“But it shouldn’t, I know –”

“Of _course_ it should matter.” He met her eyes then, her mouth set briefly into a thin line before she continued. “You care, and that matters. I’d be worried if you didn’t care.” Jemma gave his hand a firm squeeze, and he nodded, tamping down the fervent urge to crawl into her arms and just avoid the coming day forever, taking comfort in her breathing beside him. “Let’s switch, while we’re stopped,” she said, opening the door and sliding out of the car before he could respond.

Giving himself a break from driving after that phone call seemed like a very good idea, so he stepped out and moved to circle around the front of the car. “Hey, come back.” She’d reached his side of the car already, and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as soon as he took the few steps back to her.

They stood pressed together at the side of the road in the early morning, rare headlights bouncing across their figures in the dark, casting manic shadows onto the grass and scattered trees. Fitz tightened his arms around her waist, and she leaned her temple gently against his cheek. “I’m still quite angry with you, Fitz, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t...” Jemma hesitated, and then trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid, whatever it was.

When they were both in the car again, Fitz flicked on the radio. “We should keep moving until dawn, wait until the sun’s out.”

“Yes,” Jemma replied, shifting the car into gear.

Fitz watched her drive, their headlights casting a faint glow onto her face, expression calm and focused. He envied the way she seemed to have no doubts about what they were doing; he felt like he was being swallowed up by his doubt, anxious about tomorrow, about her safety, about his own frustrating, irreversible feelings and that he still had no idea what he wanted to do about them. The only thought that gave him any kind of solace was that within less than a day, it would all be over, one way or another. Fitz had spent six months being allowed to love Jemma, and two months almost feeling like he could be loved in return, and, while they drove through the outskirts of Atlanta, that seemed like something wonderful, even if it had just been temporary. If he could keep Jemma alive through tomorrow – even if she told him that wasn’t his purview – then the mission would be a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I changed "Blizzard" to "Icer" on purpose. (Dear AoS - That was a missed opportunity if I've ever seen one. Love, Me.)


	9. When the Light Started Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was it for him, Fitz knew then – he’d never love anyone as much as Jemma – and for now, this was enough. Because he had permission to tell her he loved her during the days, and to treat her like his whole world at night, and maybe that alone was enough to make the whole mission worth it.

_Last Day of the Mission – One Hundred Forty-First Day_ (Part 1)

 

Jemma pushed open the door to the ratty, one-room apartment and winced; it smelled of mildew and ammonia, strongly enough that even Fitz could smell it from two feet away. As she stepped over the threshold, gun held firmly at her side, he turned around in the abandoned hallway, checking pointlessly once more to see if they’d been followed. He stared down at their fresh footsteps in the newly-disturbed, decades-old dirt, puffs of dust still settling again on the tattered maroon carpet.

They’d have no problem hearing people approach on the creaky staircase. Maybe, if they were lucky, someone would slip on the barely-secured carpet and go tumbling backwards, knocking down enemies like dominoes before they even made it to his last stand. For that’s what today was, Fitz reminded himself: The last stand of their mission. Possibly his last chance to come clean with Jemma, if the plan didn’t work. A few more lasts flitted through his head, but he refused to give them purchase in his thoughts; he’d already been acting more than maudlin enough the past few days. Weeks, really, during the run-up to this day.

“It’s clear,” came Jemma’s voice from inside the apartment, “and the stun discs are in place, as promised.” He followed her inside, shutting the door and notching his gun in the back of his jeans. It was poor regulation form, he knew, but it was standard in the world of robberies, cons, and bets in which they’d been living for six months. Something told him it would be hard to break that habit once he was back at the Playground. Then he reminded himself that when he was back at the Playground, he wouldn’t need a place to keep his gun. Old him – the _real_ him – didn’t go out into the field on a regular basis and didn’t need a gun in the lab, and the fact that he’d almost forgotten this made a small vein of nausea work its way up the back of his throat.

Jemma pulled two chairs up to the wall near the floor-length window that looked out onto the street, but didn’t sit in either one. Instead, she stood at the edge of the window frame, wavy hair not-quite glowing with bright-gray daylight, pistol held loosely at her side. Fitz hesitated, stuck in the center of the room and berating himself for not having come up with something to say during the days that they spent planning this final op. How do you tell the person you love that what was supposed to be a lie was the truth all along? 

“Isn’t it funny, Fitz,” Jemma murmured into the rotting gauze that acted as a curtain, “how quiet it seems outside? All those people, just going about their day, when we... when something huge is about to happen to us.” A shiver ran through her shoulders almost imperceptibly, and Fitz immediately strode over to stand behind her, pretending to look over her shoulder but truly taking comfort from the press of her back against his chest. Not that long ago, relatively speaking, their frequent physical closeness had been instinctive but came with a certain line that both of them seemed to know not to cross. Remembering where that line lay would be a challenge – if they managed to make it out of this unnervingly vacant apartment building, Fitz reminded himself.

“That’s how it all works, I s’pose,” he answered, pressing an instinctive kiss to her temple. “Everything else is unimportant until it’s not.” 

Jemma chuckled as he dropped into the chair nearest her, and shook her head. “Quite the post-mod philosopher you’ve become, Fitz.”

“You know me, always changing,” he quipped, absently taking the gun from her so he could replace it with his hand. Jemma glanced down at what he was doing but didn’t stop him, briefly watching him trace his fingers down her palm and up onto her wrist before returning to her lookout. Fitz inhaled deeply, trying to get ready to make his last stand, or tell Jemma the truth, or anything in between.

 

\------

 

 _Last Day of the Mission_ (Part 6)

 

The first thing to fade into Fitz’s consciousness was the smell of disinfectant, followed shortly by a quiet, steady beeping. But the pain medication was still too potent, or he was still mostly asleep, and so he didn’t move at all when he first awoke in the Playground’s hospital wing, instead fading in and out of the conversation between the two people sitting beside him.

One of them had her legs stretched over the bottom corner of the bed, and when she spoke, it took him a few long seconds to recognize her as Skye. “Really-really? The _best_?”

“I’ll tell him how surprised you sound, Skye.” The other person was sitting along the same side, but had her hands wrapped around one of his, having pulled his arm far enough out of the bed to rest it on her knees. Jemma’s thumbs gently stroked his palm as she talked, almost lulling him back into sleep.

“It’s just... he’s so... _Fitz_.”

“Never underestimate tenacious Scottish engineers.” There was a short pause, and then an almost-wistful sigh. “It’s his hands...” 

“Oh, God, okay, you know what, you don’t have to keep going, I believe you.” A small gagging noise came from the end of the bed. “I really don’t want to throw up in the hospital wing. AC’ll never let me leave.”

“Then you need to develop a stronger stomach, because you’re my best friend aside from Fitz and sometimes I’m going to want to talk about him – and his hands.”

Skye heaved a deep breath. “Okay, just ply me with alcohol first.”

“Can do. Lots of alcohol – check.” Jemma’s fingers ghosted along his wrist and his fingers twitched involuntarily, causing her to drop his hand back on the bed and lean forward. “Fitz?”

He thought about answering, even almost wanted to, but his muscles felt sluggish and he couldn’t quite convince his tongue or lips to move. After a few seconds of beeps and clicks, presumably from Jemma checking something involving his vitals, her chair creaked and she pulled his hand back into hers, letting out a small sigh.

Skye’s voice was quiet, curious, absent of the wry amusement of just moments before. “When did you know? That you loved Fitz?”

“I’ve always loved him,” Jemma interrupted, her answer automatic. 

“I mean as not just... you know, as more than...” 

“It doesn’t actually work like that, Skye. Love isn’t like lightning, or whatever other horrible clichés they use in romances.” Jemma’s fingers tightened around his, and he was suddenly very aware of the way the stiff hospital pillowcase was scratching the back of his neck. He really wanted to move.

“No, I know, I get that, but – if you had to choose one moment. What’d it be? C’mon, humor me.”

“Well, if we’re not counting the _sex_ ,” Jemma said, clearly drawing out the word to make Skye uncomfortable, “because that was pretty mind-blowing, if I do say so –” 

“Yeah, okay, I get it, Leo Fitz, Nerdy Sex God – oomph.” Skye made a soft choking noise and lifted her feet off the bed as if she needed to stand up.

“Are you alright?” Jemma didn’t release Fitz’s hand, but her amusement had an added note of concern.

“Yup, yeah, just swallowed some bile, I’ll be fine.” He felt Jemma lean over and heard the soft smack of her slapping Skye’s shoulder, followed by the other woman’s laughter. “I’ll behave, keep going.”

“It – oh, it seems so stupid.” Her voice was quiet, almost as if she was saying it to herself. As if that’s what she had convinced herself of at the time. “It was the morning after the first time we... Fitz woke up before me, and when I got up to brush my teeth, he was already in the bathroom, and – he handed me my toothbrush with paste on it already.” There was a long pause, and Jemma’s fingers tangled even more tightly into his. For the first time possibly ever, her skin was warmer than his, and he set himself to work on really waking up so he could wrap his other hand around hers. 

After a few moments, Skye chuckled. “You’re right, that’s pretty dumb,” she teased. 

“No, really. He was so handsome standing at the sink, hair a complete mess. Just in his boxers, and the light from the window was sort of... it cast this lovely fuchsia glow over everything. And he handed me the brush with the paste, and smiled around his own toothbrush, foam all dripping down his chin and making him look _completely_ ridiculous, and I just... couldn’t remember when I’d ever been that happy.”

“I didn’t want to wake you up.” His voice was scratchy, and he had to force his eyelids open to see her face, blinking the fog of medicated sleep away. Once he did, he could see the two women staring at him, and Skye leaned eagerly over the edge of her plastic chair as Jemma jumped up to examine him. 

Fitz let her poke and prod him for a few moments, but once her face hovered into his vision again, he smiled, the sight of her like a jolt of adrenaline to his system. “That morning,” he continued, and then cleared his throat. “You were so beautiful, fast asleep in bed. Our bed. I couldn’t bear to wake you up.”

Jemma’s smile was tremulous, and a few loose tears slid down her cheeks. “You’re awake,” she said, rather needlessly, and kissed his forehead, not moving back more than a few inches. 

Wincing at the way any movement pulled sharply at his wound, Fitz struggled to sit up in the bed with Jemma’s help. Once he was situated, he noticed that Skye had both hands over her mouth, hiding a wide grin. “What?”

She glanced from him to Jemma and lowered her hands. “I swear, I didn’t think FitzSimmons could possibly _be_ any more adorable, but now look at you.”

“I wear my hospital gown well, then,” Fitz rasped drily, and Jemma rolled her eyes at their friend.

“Guys, come on.” Skye stared pointedly down at where their hands had come together automatically at the edge of the bed. “I’m gonna need some bread for all this cheese.”

Jemma released a small huff, and then leaned over to press a tender kiss to Fitz’s lips. She had probably meant it to be short, to prove some point, but Fitz slid his unoccupied hand through her hair, holding her closer as he slanted her mouth open and darted his tongue out to ghost against hers. When he pulled away, she smiled dazedly back at him, both scientists forgetting for a few moments that someone else was in the room. Somewhere in the back of his head, Fitz realized that this had been their first kiss where they weren’t in danger and both knew exactly how the other felt. It seemed to hold a promise of days to come, when they wouldn’t be constantly fearing for their lives or unsure about their relationship, and he hoped, then, that there would be many more where that came from.

At the end of the bed, their friend looked faintly green, and Fitz smirked. “Cheesy enough for you?”

She raised a hand to her stomach and grimaced. “I think I’ve developed a very specific kind of lactose-intolerance in the last minute and a half.”

Jemma tsked at her, and turned back to Fitz. “How do you feel?”

He frowned, taking stock of his various body parts. “Okay. A little woozy from the medication, I think...”

She frowned. “I told Grammar he gave you too much, you were out for almost eight hours. The gel should numb the wound anyway, if it’s working properly, which it _seems_ to be –”

“Your healing gel? Am I your first real test subject?” Fitz pushed down the blanket to take a look at the wound, wanting to see what Jemma’s concoction looked like in action, when a loud yelp came from the end of the bed.

“FITZ.” Skye scrambled out of her seat, averting her eyes. “You’re not wearing much under there, buddy, you might wanna think twice before –”

“For God’s sake, Skye, he wasn’t going to disrobe in front of you.” 

Fitz glanced down at his abdomen, and realized belatedly that had he continued, he would’ve needed to hike the hospital gown up to see the wound, so maybe Skye wasn’t so far off in her panic. “You know what, Jemma, I can look at it later.”

Once he’d tugged the blanket back up, Skye hesitantly turned back to him, only relaxing once sure he was clothed. “Actually, I should head out. I’ve got a lot to do on wiping your fake identities.” 

The memory of why he was in the hospital wing at all came rushing suddenly back to Fitz. “Donnie,” he blurted out, causing Skye to look at Jemma – and Jemma to look at the floor. “What happened to him?”

When Jemma didn’t seem eager to answer, Skye scuffed a knee-high boot against one of the bed’s wheels. “He’s in custody, but, um – he’s not really saying much.”

“What _is_ he saying?” This time when Skye glanced at Jemma, Fitz shook her arm. “Jemma, tell me what’s going on.”

She exhaled, keeping her eyes trained on the blanket. “The only thing he’s said since he got here is to ask for me, apparently. I’ve been instructed not to go near the prison cells.”

“AC’s ordered in a psychiatrist.”

Fitz’s vision hazed out as blood pounded in his ears, but not for the reason that Jemma and Skye likely expected. Although he was certainly angry and worried about Donnie’s apparent target, his mind kept replaying the ice storm that he’d help to power. His own foolishness in giving such a potent solution to a problem that it had ended up killing a teenager. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that Seth’s death had not been his fault, he still wished he’d done things differently, been smarter, noticed that something was very wrong when he stood in that dark, dank dorm room and told the desperate young man that Jemma had been _his_ solution. 

“He shouldn’t be like this,” Fitz whispered fiercely, realizing belatedly that he was squeezing Jemma’s hand far too hard.

“It’s not your fault, Fitz,” she replied, letting him hold as tightly to her as he needed. “We have no idea what Quinn or Hydra have been doing to him.” 

“He sounded pretty lucid to me.” His eyes wandered, then, to the unoccupied chairs by the room’s entrance and saw that someone had laid his leather jacket on one of them. His costume piece, his armor between himself and his cover identity – the identity he fervently wanted to shed as quickly as possible.

“Madmen often do,” Skye interjected, voice soft. “And I know a thing or two about them.” As Fitz tilted his head towards her, wondering if she was talking about their former teammate or someone else, she breathed into a smile. “Alright, kids, I really gotta run. I’ll bring you some Jello later, Fitz, the green kind.”

He nodded and gave her a small grin. “My favorite.”

At the doorway, she turned around, hesitated, and then ran back to give Jemma a warm hug, reaching one long arm down to clasp Fitz’s hand in hers. “I’m so glad you guys are back,” she mumbled into Jemma’s shoulder. 

“Us, too, Skye,” Jemma answered for them both, grinning into her hair. 

After a few moments, she broke away and gave Fitz’s hand a quick squeeze goodbye. “Hey, Skye –” When she looked back at him, he paused, glancing up at Jemma. “Can you bring the jacket back to Agent Koenig? I – I don’t want it. Anymore.” He could feel Jemma’s eyes on him but kept his gaze on Skye.

Suppressing a brief flash of surprise, she grabbed the jacket from the chair and slung it over her shoulder. “No problem – I think Koenig has a picture of it at his desk with ‘MISSING’ stamped on it in big, red letters.”

His voice stopped her one last time, when she had a foot out the door. “Oh, and – nice bangs.” Fitz grinned at the blank stares the two women gave him, knowing that neither one expected him to ever notice anything of the sort. But he had noticed, mostly because the haircut made his funny and unpredictable friend seem almost sad in a way that she hadn’t before they’d left. Or maybe that was his imagination.

“Wow, post-undercover Fitz is way more observant than old Fitz,” Skye teased. “Better keep an eye on him, Simmons.” And then she was gone, the jacket slipping around the door just as it closed.

He watched as Jemma started fussing over how he’d disarranged his blankets when he sat up, and then straightened the wires connected to his IV and the monitors.

“I can’t wear it anymore.”

Her brow crinkled as she straightened, studying him. “What?”

“That jacket. I know you like it, but I can’t – I can’t be him –”

“I know,” she interrupted, giving him an encouraging smile. “I know. I’d rather have you than that jacket.”

Fitz laughed a little too loudly and tried to disguise it with a cough. It seemed too surreal to have her being so open after he’d hidden his feelings for so long. “What if I promise to let you buy me a new one?”

She sat back down and reached for his hand. “A leather jacket?” 

“Yeah. Something more ‘me,’ you know.”

“You’re volunteering to let me take you shopping?” Her voice was teasing, but she couldn’t quite disguise the layer of excitement underneath. 

“I’m volunteering to let you take me to get one specific item,” he answered sternly, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling back at her as she got a faraway look in her eyes.

“Hmmm, we could try you in a bomber jacket, or maybe stay with one that’s a little more fitted – I’m not sure brown leather would really work with your skin tone, but the black really was just...”

Jemma trailed off then, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder, and he wondered if she was thinking about him in leather the way he thought about her in a lab coat. It was still strange to think of her fantasizing about him in any way, despite the mountain of evidence that she was clearly attracted to him in one way or another. (Even Fitz knew that people didn’t usually want to have sex with someone to whom they weren’t attracted.)

He shook his head in amused resignation. “Whatever you’d like.”

This brought her attention back to him, and she wrinkled her nose. “Is this what dating you is going to be like? You agree to everything?”

“Definitely not. Right now I’m just too weak to resist.” 

“Good. I really wouldn’t know what to do without the bickering.”

“So, um...” His voice failed him, and he dropped his eyes to where their hands were entwined, moving to trace the thin veins visible on the underside of her wrist with his thumb. “Is that what we... are we... are you my...”

“Dating, boyfriend, and girlfriend?” Her lips quirked up in amusement. “Might those be the right words?”

Fitz grinned, trying desperately not to let his face flush and returning his eyes to her face. “Yeah, alright, Miss Two-PhDs. That’s what I meant. ”

She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, whispering over his skin: “Yes, we are.”

Before she moved back fully into her chair, something he’d been half-thinking as he’d listened to her talk to Skye came bursting out of him: “I’m sorry.” Jemma’s face twisted immediately in confusion, so he continued, faltering slightly over the wording. “For waiting so long. To tell you. I – I didn’t...”

“Oh,” she sighed in relief, settling into the chair and returning her hand to his. “Honestly... I’m not sure I was ready. Before. I think I’ve been slower than you, in this singular instance. By the time you... I knew. That I felt the same. It worked out for the best, in the end.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes,” she answered with a smile, and then glanced at the partially-closed blinds over the window into the hallway. “Move over.” After a moment where Fitz raised an eyebrow at her and she shooed him to the other side of the mattress, he did as she asked, and Jemma slid into the bed next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. She laid her hand on his stomach, and Fitz leaned more fully back against the angled mattress, feeling rather like this small hospital wing room was definitely one of his new favorite places in the universe.

“I don’t think I...” Fitz cleared his throat. “Don’t think I ever said...” Jemma tilted her head up quizzically, and his heart monitor made a warning beeping noise that made him want to throw the damned thing out the non-existent window. Keeping his eyes trained on hers, he ignored the noise and forced himself to say something he should’ve said a very long time ago: “I love you, Jemma.”

She gave him one of her most brilliant smiles, running her fingers gently over his cheek. “I love you, too.”

The heart monitor sped up its beeping, and Fitz groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Bloody machines.” Gigging quietly, Jemma just nuzzled back into his shoulder, his heartbeat taking another minute or so to go back to normal.

“I’m still angry with you for trying to take that bullet, you know,” she murmured against his neck. 

He pursed his lips and gave a quick nod that he realized she couldn’t see. “I know.” The reason for her anger was still just beyond his reach, but she’d show him; he was sure she was right, somehow, even though he didn’t know why.

“And we still have a lot to talk about.”

“I know. But we’ll figure it out. Together.” Fitz pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she hummed in agreement, and he decided that getting impaled by an icicle wasn’t really as terrible as he would have expected.

 

\------

 

 _Eighty-Sixth Day_ (Part 6)

 

The last few minutes had been a blur to Fitz, as they moved from heated kissing and grinding to Jemma pushing the foil packet into his hand to somehow getting the condom on and now.... Now her legs were curved along his waist, one of his hands clutched at her hip, and he was just millimeters away from being inside her. And that moment of realization had frozen Fitz completely, praying that the shaking in his arms was noticeable only to him. 

“Jemma,” he panted, staring at the sheen of sweat along her collarbone because he couldn’t quite make himself meet her eyes. “Are you sure you want... we can find... another way...” 

This was the moment when everything would change for them if they went through with it, and he was absolutely bloody terrified. If she changed her mind now, he would deal with it, would use tonight’s other memories to keep himself going in the long, dark months and years ahead, would hope that what the Wellers had heard earlier was enough to maintain their cover. Fitz had no idea how things would change if he let the desperately aroused part of himself move forward, if he allowed himself to let go. The way she’d been responding to him had almost made him forget that she was acting, that even if she was physically interested it wasn’t about him or even them. His ability to keep their friendship separate from his pathetic, almost-certainly one-sided crush hinged on him staying clear-headed, and he very much doubted he could keep that up if they crossed this final line, if he let himself come apart inside her. Although, _God_ , did he want to. 

Jemma’s eyes were on him, he could tell, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look up, terrified that she’d tell him to move away – and terrified that she’d tell him to keep going. “Fitz,” she murmured, lifting one hand to brush her thumb along his cheek.

A moment later, she removed that hand and Fitz lost the ability to breathe as her fingers wrapped around his erection, guiding him to her entrance and then tilting her hips slowly up to take him inside. Unable to stop himself from seeking out more of her, his own inhibitions suddenly subsumed by desire, he let his hips sink lower until he was almost all the way in and released a long, tremulous groan, pleasure skittering through his entire body at the feeling of her surrounding him. But he didn’t miss the brief wince that flashed across her face almost faster than he could process it and he stilled instantly, remembering what she’d said about how long it had been for her, his concern overriding all of his baser instincts.

The world narrowed to the shadows on Jemma’s face and the way her muscles clenched around him, adjusting to his size as Fitz tried not to move. But, God, she was so beautiful lying beneath him, hair spread messily out on the pillow and lips parted, and he remembered the way his given name had fallen from her mouth before they’d even really started and, _Christ_ , it felt so bloody good to be inside of her. Inside of Jemma, his best friend, his partner – joined in a way suddenly so much more intimate than a shared name. All of his muscles were protesting, desperately wanting to move, needing to find that rhythm, that friction, that spark, but he wasn’t going to do anything until Jemma said so, would never dare hurting her.

Fitz brushed kisses against her temple, her cheek, her nose, his mind racing with the desperate realization that he was wildly, irrevocably in love with Jemma Simmons, and wanted nothing more than to just tell her, boundaries be damned. To have this be _real_ , and not just because they needed to secure their covers to complete the mission. For her to understand that when he looked at her he saw so much more than the girl at the top of the class or the genius who was brave enough to save the world. Another part of him knew that it would be a mistake – the logical part of him, the part that knew he’d have to face the consequences of the truth and what that would mean for both the mission and their relationship. That telling her now could ruin everything. 

Then she rolled her hips and he slid further in, his mind wiped blank as she tightened ever-so-slightly around him, and he gave a choked-off moan of surprise. _Fuck_ , he didn’t remember it ever feeling like this before, like he could break apart at the mere shift of her skin under his bare hands. It was a good thing that noise was the goal of this entire night, because he’d never be able to keep quiet, not when she felt this good, pliant and responsive and wrapped around him.

“Move, Fitz,” she whispered, “I’m ready.”

As he always had, and always would, Fitz obeyed, pulling away and pushing back in, panting out his pleasure as she matched his movements, both of them breathing in tandem, their bodies fitting together like they’d been heading towards this moment for years. In some ways, they fell together like so much of their relationship, all of a sudden but in sync and still a little surprising for all their familiarity. Words weren’t needed when Fitz had thought they would be, her shifting as she felt him lose the rhythm, him bracing her leg as she tried to find a better angle. It was so very FitzSimmons in such a completely different way, and it made Fitz feel both dizzy and ecstatic.

“Is t-this – okay?” His voice was rough and barely audible, but she’d closed her eyes and he needed to bring her back, to make sure he hadn’t done something wrong, and, somewhat selfishly, to allow himself to pretend that she wanted to be here just as much as he did.

Her eyes opened at the same time that she lifted her hips up to meet his and he groaned, either at the sensation of her movement or the darkened brown of her irises. “God, yes,” she whimpered back, digging her fingers slightly into his shoulder and causing him to thrust into her a little harder on the next stroke. “Ah, Fitz, _yes_ _-_!” The broken-off cry surprised him and he repeated the motion again and again, eliciting more of those little moans and gasps she’d made earlier, her voice alone carrying him closer and closer to the edge.

After a moment, Jemma leaned up to brush her lips against his, keeping a sweet, affectionate contact so very different from the heat building between them as his hips started to speed up. The confident, almost-eager way she responded to his every thrust was making his brain short out completely, the slick warmth and tightness of her around him coupled with the softness of her eyes more intense than he could have expected. He tried to slow himself, wanting to watch her come apart for a second time tonight, this time with her breath on his face and body trembling underneath his, to prove that he could give her all this and more, but it had been too long and the rhythmic clenching of her muscles around his cock was driving him rapidly, far too rapidly over the edge.

As if she could yet again feel his hesitation, Jemma slid her hands down his sides, one grasping his arse and the other hitching her own leg further up, the new angle causing them both to gasp. “F-faster,” she moaned, and at the sound of her voice, English accent rough with desire _for him_ , all thoughts of reaching down to stroke her into a second orgasm were dashed from his head as he gave a few more wild, hard thrusts and then came, hips twitching him as far inside her as he could go. His release was filled with her, her skin, her voice, her eyes, and somewhere dimly he thought he’d groaned something but her walls contracted around him again and he was sure an orgasm had never lasted this long before.

At last, Fitz returned to himself, finding his forehead pressed hard against Jemma’s still-panting chest, and lifted up to look at her. He almost wanted to promise that next time – because there had to be a next time, now – he would be better, when it wasn’t their first night and he wasn’t so overwhelmed by the sensation of being a part of her. Of letting himself finally acknowledge all of those things about Jemma that he’d been suppressing for far too long. In that split second, he worried what expression would be on her face, wondering if she’d expected more after he’d taken her apart earlier with his tongue and fingers.

But when he met her gaze he fell in love all over again, her smile wide and open, honey-colored eyes searching for his reaction and a hand bringing his face forward so she could kiss him. This was it for him, Fitz knew then – he’d never love anyone as much as Jemma – and for now, this was enough. Because he had permission to tell her he loved her during the days, and to treat her like his whole world at night, and maybe that alone was enough to make the whole mission worth it.

 

\------

 

_Six Days After the Mission_

 

Fitz shifted his abdomen to the left as far as it would go within the confines of the imposing, metal chair that made up the center of Koenig’s lie-detector test. The machine wasn’t designed with comfort in mind anyway, and the arm pressed uncomfortably against his still-healing wound. Thanks to Jemma’s gel it was improving at an almost-miraculously fast pace, but it was still sore, and having had a metal edge press into it for an extended period of time meant that Fitz was more than ready to be done with the whole meeting. Due to his injury, his post-mission briefings had been delayed a few days, and this was technically a follow-up. But Billy Koenig was in charge of this one, which meant that it had lasted about four times as long as it should have. 

While Koenig reviewed his notes, Fitz scratched absently at his chin, still disconcerted by the absence of the scruff that had been a constant presence for the past few months. He was glad for being clean-shaven once again, but it was taking more getting used to than he’d have guessed all that time ago.

At last, Koenig glanced up from his file and gave Fitz a tight smile. Parts of the debriefing had been deeply uncomfortable, particularly when they discussed the phone call with Skye where Fitz had intimated more-than-subtly that he would have considered staying with the Wellers had Jemma agreed to stay with him. Fitz had eventually managed to convince Koenig that he was really never suited to a life of crime and had absolutely no interest in becoming so, but it took longer than it should have – and he was ashamed that he’d done something to make anyone in SHIELD doubt his loyalty. It had been his own fault – he knew that – but it didn’t make him any less eager to forget about it.

“What do you think saved you, Agent Fitz? From losing sight of the goal of this operation?”

Keeping the machine’s instruments in mind, he kept his head still as he answered. “Agent Simmons, sir. She’s been saving me every day since the moment I met her.” Alarmingly, Koenig actually laughed, and Fitz frowned. “What?”

The man glanced away from the machine’s read out. “Isn’t that, I dunno, a bit quixotic? For you, especially?”  

At that, Fitz allowed himself a wry smile. “I’m a scientist, not an idealist. I’m just telling you the truth.”

Koenig took one last look down at the machine’s results and nodded. “Alright then. That’s all we need from you, Agent Fitz, you’re free to rejoin your team. Welcome back.” 

The agent turned to a table full of files and papers as Fitz extracted himself from the chair, but he hesitated before going to the door. “Agent Koenig... I was just wondering if we know what happened to the Harrises. Shawn and Georgie.”

Koenig didn’t look up. “Can’t say I do, sorry. We didn’t pinch them in the raid on Weller’s lair, I know that much.”

“The Boarding House.”

This time, Koenig did look up, his round, deceptively cheerful face studying Fitz intently. “What?”

“That’s just – that’s what they call it. _Called_ it,” he stuttered, trying to shrug it off. “Never mind.” He felt Koenig’s eyes on the back of his neck as he escaped the lie detector room and tried to reconcile himself to the fact that he’d probably never know what happened to the only decent people they’d met in their six months of undercover work.

Striding quickly back to the lab, he managed to make it to the hallway just outside before he forgot about his injury and stretched his arm over his head. The wound pulled and he winced slightly, shaking his head at himself.

“Everything okay?” 

He opened his eyes to see May staring at him with what to most of the world looked like a blank expression, but that Fitz thought included a hint of concern. (Not that he would consider himself an expert on either people or May specifically, but he thought he heard a tinge of worry in her calm voice, too. Almost definitely. Probably. Maybe.)

“Yeah, I just keep forgetting not to stretch too much or it pulls.”

“Healing alright?” 

Fitz nodded, rubbing absent-mindedly at the edge of his bandage through the cotton of his shirt. “No complaints. Other than Jemma’s mothering, which is getting a little exhausting, to be honest. She always thinks she knows best, but I’m an adult, y’know, I can take care of myself –”

“Can you clean the wound? And can you tell if it’s staying infection-free?” This time, Fitz was almost certain that he heard a note of dry judgment in her question, and he reddened.

“Ah. Well, not so much...”

“Better let Simmons keep doing her job.” Then, to Fitz’s near-complete shock, May smiled at him. What for her was a brief quirk of her lips was something that Fitz had rarely ever seen, and he was suddenly struck by the thought that she was probably glad he’d made it back to them alive. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually.” 

“Go ahead,” he answered when she didn’t go on, gesturing lamely with his hand for her to continue.

“Six months ago, you told me you didn’t want the mission to change you. Did it?”

Somehow, in all of the meetings and post-mission briefings he’d attended in the past few days, this was the first time anyone had put the question to him so bluntly. Fitz glanced down at the concrete floor, thinking about how he hadn’t always behaved as well as he should have, as Jemma would have. More often than he would’ve liked he’d had to do things in the line of duty that he wished he hadn’t, things that wouldn’t be considered “good.” Things that brought him closer to the man locked away in a Playground prison cell than he cared to admit.

But he knew himself better now, knew his own limits, how far he would go for Jemma, for justice, for himself, and how far he actually should. The mission had allowed him and Jemma to explore parts of their relationship that he’d once thought could never be aired, and that made him happier than he’d ever been in his life – but that wasn’t all that had changed. The experience had made him more thoughtful, more self-aware, and, ultimately, it would make him a better agent. Fitz wouldn’t always be able to fix the problems that his work or his actions had created – Donnie’s very existence now proved that – but he’d make damn sure that he’d get better at trying. Now he knew what SHIELD was truly facing, the ordinary evils as well as the alien and the superhuman. He’d be able to _be_ better, not just for himself or for Jemma, but for the innocent people they were working to protect. 

Fitz looked back up at May and gave her a small nod. “Yes. But I think I’m okay with how it did.”

May raised an eyebrow and then tilted her head up slightly, in a way that Fitz thought was probably approving. “Good.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small manila envelope. “I was just passing by to inspect the Bus, and Skye asked me to drop this off at the lab for you and Simmons.” He took the envelope, but was interrupted before he could thank her.

“Fitz!” Jemma called from down the hall, lab coat in place over her normal, feminine-yet-restrained clothing, goggles perched atop her forehead. “Come quickly, there’s a problem with this ghastly new stun... debacle they worked up while we were gone. And by a problem, I mean about a dozen.” She disappeared immediately within the sliding glass doors. 

Fitz turned to say goodbye to May, but she was already halfway down the other hallway. “Go on, Agent. You don’t want to be late for work.”

The second he walked into the lab, Jemma corralled him towards a chair by his primary workstation, talking all the way. “You won’t believe the disaster they’ve worked up, Fitz, it’s as if no one here even remembers that stunning requires an effective isothermal shock, _and_ they’ve tried to add the aerosol dendrotoxin to it as well but I have yet to figure out why two redundant stun methods are necessary for a single weapon.”

Once he was leaning on the table and had refused to sit, she grabbed a heavy file and tossed it in front of him. “Here’s their records of the blasted thing, you have three hours to see what you can make of it before we’re off the clock for the day. You’re to use Justin over there – see him? No, there – to fetch you any tools or supplies you require, and you’re not to move around too much.” He opened his mouth to protest but she barreled over him, hunting for a pencil while she spoke. “And I won’t hear any arguments about it, Fitz, really, you must spend most of your work time sitting down, because based on your examination this morning your injury is healing well enough that you should be ready for some physical exertion tonight and I do not want you tiring yourself out here.” She finally found a pencil and smiled widely, holding it out to him.

His mouth was just hanging open, and it took him longer than it should have to take the pencil from her. “Physical exertion –”

“Yes, I mean sex.” Jemma made as if to return to her side of the lab, but she watched him swallow and then grinned, reaching a hand up to pat his cheek. “Sound okay to you, hmm?” 

Acutely aware that a number of their colleagues were working busily around them and suddenly unable to remember how to form words, he just nodded dumbly, leaning against her hand. Although she’d refused any kind of fooling around at all since they’d returned to the base – focusing all her energy on making sure that he healed properly first – Jemma had been sleeping in his bunk with him ever since they returned, and he’d reached a rather acute point of frustration this morning when he’d awoken in the middle of a racy dream to find her sleeping mostly on top of him. 

“Y’know,” he said quietly, worried about being overheard even though the other scientists were on the other side of the room. “It’ll be our first time together when we... when we both _know_. You’re sure you, I dunno – you don’t want to wait? Make it a night and all that?” Resisting the urge to check to see if they were being watched again, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She shook her head, eyes shining in the lab’s bright lights. “I don’t want to wait anymore, Fitz.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t until she raised her eyebrow that Fitz realized he had a wide, goofy smile stretched across his face. “I... yeah. I don’t want to wait, then, either.” Jemma leaned up on her tiptoes, but before her lips could meet his he tilted his head so she kissed his cheek instead, nodding towards their colleagues. Logically, he _knew_ they’d spent much of the past few months doing far more than simply kissing for an audience, and yet it seemed different to him somehow, here in their new-ish lab. “I don’t want this to be for anyone else, now. Just us.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, smoothing out his shirt collar. “Alright, then. Tonight you are all mine.”

“Yeah, I am.” Before she could turn away, he wrapped his fingers gently around her wrist. “I mean it, Jemma,” he murmured, searching her eyes and feeling oddly nervous. “From now on, I’m yours. All of me.”

“Well, that’s really a fallacy borne out of antiquated societal constructs, because human beings aren’t property... but...” Jemma trailed off, reading the seriousness behind his eyes, and quirked her lips into a small smile. “Technicalities aside, and all that. I’m yours, too, Fitz.” 

“Really?” His voice sounded strange and breathless to his ears, and he hated his need to know, to be sure, but her eyes just softened as she gazed back at him.

“And truly.” Jemma pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, and then pulled back just as quickly, grinning at breaking his pseudo-rule and then moving over a little to tidy up his somehow-already-messy workstation. He gave brief thought to shooing her away, but then remembered her instructions and about tonight, and decided that this time he’d hold his tongue, lowering himself gingerly onto the stool she’d provided.

“Oh!” Fitz twisted around, picking up the manila envelope he’d completely forgotten. “Skye sent us this...”

When he reached inside, he pulled out two scanned Polaroid pictures and a pink Post-it note, which said: “ _The last evidence of the Harker-Fitzgeralds. Thought you two cheeseballs might like them. Happy sciencing!_ ” 

Jemma leaned over his shoulder to look at the pictures, and made a small _aww_ against his neck. Both were pictures taken by Georgie during quiet days, one in front of the Aston-Martin (which was currently awaiting Fitz’s attention in the Playground’s garage) and the other in the back room of Georgie’s bar. Fitz stared at the picture of the bar; he hadn’t realized that the picture was being taken and didn’t remember seeing it before. In it, Jemma stood next to him in one of the more stunning outfits she’d worn as Jemma Harker, and he was gazing up at her with an unmistakable look of longing and wonder. He tried to ignore the embarrassment that pooled in the pit of his stomach – had he always been this obvious?

“Have you seen this before?” He held up the dinner picture to Jemma and she nodded against his shoulder. 

“Georgie gave it to me a couple days ago, but I lost it in our rush to leave. I need to thank Skye for finding it.” She pressed a slow kiss to his neck and he closed his eyes, completely forgetting about the other people working nearby. “That’s what she meant, you know. When she mentioned how you look at me...” 

Fitz twisted around to meet her eyes, placing one hand on her waist and willing away his blush. “I never thought about it before she said that, honestly.”

Jemma sighed, gazing back at him. “I didn’t notice until I saw this picture.” She smoothed her fingers briefly through his hair and then returned to sorting through the papers on his table.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, actually,” Fitz said, tugging absently at the edge of her lab coat. “Um, what – what do I call you now?”

She gave him an incredulous look and then smirked, leaning forward across the table. “Well, there’s one pet name of which I’ve become rather fond...”

“NO –” His voice squeaked loudly, and he could feel his ears flush pink. “No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she chuckled, tapping a pile of papers against the steel surface. “Simmons or Jemma, hm?”

“Yeah. D’you care?”

“Not especially.” Jemma finished sorting what she could and then glanced over to her abandoned workstation. “What about you? I don’t think I’ve ever called you Leo, actually.” When Fitz glanced down, sure that his ears were practically red enough to lead a whole fleet of sleighs, she frowned. “What?”

“Actually... um. You have. Called me Leo. Once.” He waved his hand, indicating that she should move closer, and she stretched across the corner of the lab table, supporting herself with her elbows. “Our first time...”

“Oh God,” she groaned, hands flying up to her neck. “When I –”

“No. Later.” He watched the crease between her eyes deepen as she relived the moment, and then her face flushed pink all at once and she squeaked, staring at him. 

“I didn’t realize I said it out loud.” When Fitz raised his eyebrows, she made another noise of frustration and scooted even closer across the table. “You know how your mind wanders, sometimes, when you’re... doing...”

“Good to know I can keep your attention.”

“Shush, you know what I mean. And I was wondering what it would be like to, um, say your given name mid-copulation, and.... Apparently I did. Or right before, anyway.” 

Unable to stop his grin, he reached out to pull one of her hands away from her face, threading his fingers through hers. “Well, it worked for me.”

She laughed shakily, squeezing his hand in return. “Shall I try it out, then?”

“A test run of sorts. Yeah.”

They smiled at each other for a few more moments before Jemma stood to go back to work, and Fitz turned to the enormous file she’d left him. Standing in their lab, the nexus of their relationship, and talking about names and being together made Fitz feel extraordinarily peaceful, knowing that every second from now on of their life and their work was going to be better than he could have predicted. Difficult at times, of course – no SHIELD agent’s life could be smooth sailing forever – but better for simply being together and completely honest, at long last. 

And maybe, one day soon, he’d knick one of Jemma’s lab coats and see if she’d be willing to wear it after hours. Probably if he agreed to wear his brand new, SHIELD-appropriate leather jacket.

 

\------

 

_Last Day Before the Mission_

 

Fitz knew he should have gone to bed two hours ago – he knew it, but he wasn’t tired. After lying on top of the covers of his cot in the Playground’s residence wing for an hour, he’d given up and headed to his and Simmons’ lab, but he hadn’t been able to focus on anything there, either. Nothing seemed productive at eleven-forty-five at night, less than eight hours before he and Simmons were supposed to be setting off for the most difficult and dangerous mission of their entire SHIELD careers. And that was saying something.

Instead, he’d settled for pacing up and down the residence hallway outside his bedroom (more of a bed-hutch than a bedroom, but he only had a few more hours to be cramped in it anyway), going over his pack list and character backstory in his head. During his third turn down the hall, he heard a distinct thump followed by: “Oh, bloody hell!”

Suppressing a grin, he knocked quietly on Simmons’ door. “It’s me. Can I –”

“Come in,” she finished for him, and he felt he shouldn’t have been surprised when he opened the door to see Simmons sitting on the floor, surrounded by notes, documents, and files having to do with their mission. She gave him a tired smile, both hands occupied with papers. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

He shook his head. “Too much adrenaline.” 

“Me, too. I decided to use the time to keep working on memorizing the names of our known targets.”

Mirroring his partner, Fitz lowered himself to the floor and crossed his legs. “That’s a good idea, I should’ve thought of that.” He watched her shuffle through a few papers, trying not to focus on her fingers, on their dexterity and gracefulness. “What did you forget?”

“ _Ugh_ , Charlie Weller’s son’s name – it’s one of the easiest ones, I don’t know why I keep dropping it...”

“Want some help?”

Simmons nodded, relieved, and handed him the papers she was holding. “Thank you, Fitz.”

“What’re partners for, eh?” He grinned at her, trying to disguise his own nervousness.

As he should have suspected, however, Simmons sensed his mood and stared down at her feet instead of at her papers. “It’s going to be strange, leaving all this.” 

“Yeah.”

“Are you scared?” Simmons looked up from her lavender ballet flats and made eye contact, studying his face as if searching for a clue to his answer before he said it. 

Fitz hesitated, pulling back on his normal defensiveness. “Yeah. I am.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she exhaled, unable to stop a small smile from escaping. “Me, too.”

“It’s gonna be okay, though.” The words surprised him as they left his mouth, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed it.

“How can you know that, Fitz?”

“Because we’ll be together,” he replied. No matter what happened, no matter what they had to deal with while they were undercover, as long as he was with Simmons, everything would work itself out.

Simmons beamed at him, and then crawled over her notes and files to wrap an arm around his back, curling into his side. Briefly startled, Fitz moved an arm to rest around her shoulders and leaned his cheek against the top of her head. _Yeah_ , he thought to himself. _This is_ exactly _where I’m meant to be_.

After allowing himself a few moments of peace and quiet, he nudged Simmons’ shoulder with his. “C’mon, then. You’ve got some names to memorize.”

Fitz started listing off names and occupations, waiting for Simmons’ answer before moving on to the next item, but she didn’t move away from his side, and he didn’t release her shoulders. For tonight, FitzSimmons needed something familiar and calming before they stepped into the chaos of crime families and Hydra-affiliates, and studying on the floor of Simmons’ room was exactly that.

 

\------

 

**_The End_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so that's it! I can't believe it's all finally out there - what a crazy adventure this has been. Thank you so much for everyone who's read it or ever dropped me a note to say so - you all make the work worthwhile! 
> 
> And here's to hoping our science babes get some kind of a happy ending in canon one day, hm?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Day Ninety-Nine: Kisses in the Sunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193685) by [EclecticMuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticMuse/pseuds/EclecticMuse)




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